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THE  LOST  CHIMES 

And  Other  Poems 

GUSTAV  MELBY 


BOSTON 

RICHARD  G.  BADGER 

THE   GORHAM    PRESS 


Copyright,   1918,  by  Gustav  Melby 


All  Rights  Reserved 


4-^^ 


Thb  Gorsam  Press.  Boston.  U.  S.  A- 


To  the  Memory  of  My  Friend 

Dr.  Frank  J.  Cressy 

Whose  Skill  as  a  Physician  Saved  My 

Child's  Life,  and  Whose  Kindness  as 

a  Friend  Lent  Inspiration  to  Life's 

Pursuits 


388453 


6  Contents 

Page 

The  Red  Cross 137 

The  Doleful  Mother  of  Mankind 138 

Midwinter's  Dream   (1918)    139 

By   the  Wayside 

The  Canadian  Prairies   143 

The  Rocky  Mountains 143 

Mount  Shasta 144 

Verses 145 

To  an  Unknown  Musician 146 

Seattle    147 

Gjoa 148 

The  Grave  in  the  Desert 149 

The  Mountains  of  the  Prophet 150 

Chicago    151 

The  Isle  of  Dreams 152 

Lake  Harriet 153 

The  Cubist   154 

The  Handclasp 155 

A  Country  Store 156 

Sunsets  on  Clearwater  Lake,  Minn 158 


Contents  7 

Page 

Twilight    162 

April    162 

I'm  a  Part  of  the  Wind  and  the  Curling 

Wave   164 

The  Chipping  Sparrow   165 

In  the  Lilac-Blossom-Time   166 

The  Runnel's  Ditty   168 

The  Child  and  the  Gospel  of  St.  John  ...  169 

The  Birthday  Cake   1 70 

My  Goldfish   170 

The  Fiddler's  Christmas  Music 172 

Cruel  Kitty 175 

To    176 

Farewell    177 

Alone   178 

Lines  on  an  Old  Songbook 178 

Pearls  and  Palaces 1 80 

Victor  Hugo   183 

To  a  Friend   184 

To  a  "Knocker" 185 

A  Vision    186 


Contents 


Page 

Signs   Celestial    187 

Despair    188 

Hope    188 

Be  Still  My  Soul,  Be  Still 190 

Awake    190 

The  Awakening 192 

Asters 192 

Butterflies 193 

The  Rosebush  194 

Two  Aspects 195 

The  Great  "I  Am"  196 

The  Death  Chant 196 

The  Letter   197 

God's  Truth-Teller 199 

The  Death  of  the  Poet 200 

In  Search  of  the  Perfect 202 

The  Christmas  Cactus 203 

Christmas  Night 204 

A  New  Year's  Invocation,  191 8 205 

Easter 207 


Contents  9 

Page 
Sonnets 

Lux  Ex  Orfente    2ii 

On  the  Statue  of  Voltaire 2I2 

A  Venetian  Well  Head 213 

The   Prospect 214 

The  Harvest  215 

The  Reward  of  Epimenides 215 


THE  LOST  CHIMES 


THE  LOST  CHIMES 

"Count  not  the  cost,  a  thousand  more  or  less 
Is  not  the  question,  but  a  perfect  tone, 
A  clang  as  clear  as  the  Italian  sky, 
As  strong  and  joyful  as  the  victor's  cry, 
As  deep  and  mellow  as  the  ocean's  moan. 
And  tender  as  a  mother's  fond  caress." 

"And  let  there  be  no  stint  of  pure  alloy, 
Of  bronze  and  silver,  no,  not  even  of  gold, 
Yea,  let  this  be  thy  very  master-piece, 
In  all  its  making, — if  it  doth  me  please, 
Half  of  my  fortune  shall  to  thee  be  told, 
And  to  its  praise  my  life  I  shall  employ." 

Thus  spake  Sordino,  noble  Florentine, 
To  one  who  was  renowned  for  casting  bells, 
Who  now  was  asked  to  make  a  set  of  chimes, 
A  task  he  had  accomplished  many  times. 
But  this,  he  thought,  the  highest  skill  compels, 
And  yet  the  work  he  promised  to  begin. 

But  first  for  thoughts  and  dreams  he  leisure  found, 

For  consecration  to  the  work  at  hand, 

Since  this  the  glory  of  his  life  should  be, 

A  grand  creation,  a  sweet  symphony 

Of  human  life,  which  all  might  understand. 

Their  souls  re-echoed  in  the  liquid  sound. 

II 

He  was  a  man  of  many  changing  moods, 
Impetuous,  like  mighty  Angelo, 

13 


14  The  Lost  Chimes 

And  kindly,  like  the  saintly  Raphael, 

His  patience,  like  Palissy's,  nought  could  quell, 

In  worship,  like  the  good  Angelico, 

And  yet  the  "fickled  Fame"  his  name  excludes. 

He  nature  loved,  and  wandered  oft  alone 
Mid  deep  recesses  of  some  shady  wood. 
And  listened  to  the  many  varied  sounds, 
From  notes  of  birds  to  noise  of  baying  hounds, 
And  oftentimes  as  if  enraptured  stood. 
Held  by  the  music  of  the  undertone. 

Once  had  he  loved  a  maiden,  in  whose  eyes 
He  read  the  happiness  of  human  life, 
And  mystery  of  the  immortal  soul, 
A  love  to  which  he  gave  himself  and  all. 
With  but  one  aim,  to  win  her  as  his  wife, 
And  realize  his  dream  of  Paradise. 

But  death  did  also  mark  her  for  his  own. 
With  hectic  flushes  on  the  pallid  cheek, 
And  growing  languor  in  the  sprightly  limbs; 
And  as  the  day  before  night's  darkness  dims, 
So  did  her  youthful  buoyancy  grow  weak, 
And  like  a  vision  fair,  she  soon  was  gone. 

And  sorrow,  with  its  wintry  blast  did  chill 

His  manly  nature  to  the  very  core, 

And  many  months  he  spent  in  utter  woe ; 

But,  like  the  flow'r  which  grows  beneath  the  snow, 

A  life  which  he  had  never  known  before 

Rose  from  submission  to  the  Higher  Will. 


The  Lost  Chimes  15 

These  elements  did  pass  into  his  work, 

His  love  and  grief,  his  dreams  and  changing  moods, 

And  all  he  was  seemed  mingle  in  the  mold 

Of  molten  metal,  and  was  subtly  told 

By  silver  tongued  bells  in  solitudes 

Of  monastery,  or  of  country  kirk. 

Ill 

As  one  who  summons  all  the  latent  pow'r 
Within  his  soul,  for  one  last  great  attempt 
To  reach  an  aim  of  lifelong  beckoning, 
Thus  did  he  give  himself  to  this  one  thing, 
Began  his  task  in  spotless  white,  and  kempt. 
Emerging  from  the  sacramental  hour. 

He  days  and  nights  upon  his  labor  fixed, 
Forgetful  both  of  hunger  and  of  sleep, — 
His  soul  reflected  in  the  fiery  glow; 
And  some  did  say,  he  let  his  life-blood  flow. 
And  others,  that  he  sometimes  stopped  to  weep, 
And  with  his  blood  and  tears  the  metal  mixed. 

And  when  at  last  the  chimes  were  cast,  there  came 

A  great  collapse  of  utter  weariness 

Upon  him,  and  he  slept  for  many  days; 

The  finishing,  with  all  artistic  ways. 

Was  patience's  work,  more  like  a  fond  caress 

Of  something  born  of  inspiration's  flame. 

The  day  of  testing  came,  the  final  test ; 
Sordino  coming  early  in  the  morn, 
Since  eager  was  his  soul  to  know  for  sooth, 
If  its  ideal  of  the  highest  truth — 


1 6  The  Lost  Chimes 

Of  harmony — incarnate  can  be  born, 
And  with  the  works  of  man  itself  invest. 

And  when  two  skilful  hands  intoned  a  hymn, 
And  gave  the  chimes  a  chance  for  utterance, — 
As  shining  on  a  scaffold  high  they  hung, — 
It  seemed  to  him,  it  was  by  angels  sung. 
So  pure,  so  sweet,  it  did  his  soul  entrance. 
And  with  the  tears  of  joy  his  eyes  make  dim. 

The  task  was  done,  a  work  of  perfect  art ; 
And  handsome  was  the  price  Sordino  paid, 
A  fortune  to  the  maker  of  those  bells, 
Of  whom,  henceforth,  tradition  nothing  tells, 
We  know  not  where  his  future  course  was  laid, 
Nor  when  or  where  from  life  he  did  depart. 

IV 

The  chimes  found  their  exalted  place  within 
A  high  cathedral  tow'r.  Sordine's  gift 
To  a  beloved  fane  of  Italy, 
And  that  their  melodies  might  always  be 
Within  his  hearing,  he  his  home  did  shift 
From  country  silence  to  the  city's  din. 

Where,  like  some  voices  from  an  unseen  realm 
Their  music  did  announce  each  fleeting  hour 
To  all  the  throngs  which  moved  in  streets  below, 
And  as  their  harmonies  upon  the  air  did  flow. 
They  seemed  to  have  a  superhuman  pow'r 
O'er  listening  hearts,  yea,  even  to  overwhelm 


The  Lost  Chimes  1 7 

The  meditative  mind  with  such  a  joy 

Of  loveliness  and  beauty,  that  a  tear 

Would  glisten  in  the  upward  look  of  pray'r; 

And  they  would  lift  the  heavy  loads  of  care 

From  souls  oppressed,  and  banish  carking  fear, 

And  grief  and  black  remorse  which  life  destroy. 

And  thus  they  day  and  night  gripped  human  souls 
With  hope  and  cheer  mid  life's  divers  pursuits; 
But  on  the  Sabbath  and  the  sacred  days, 
When  man  is  called  to  think  of  better  ways. 
They  seemed  so  jubliant  with  heavenly  truths, 
That  none  did  doubt  that  God  His  children  calls. 

They  had  a  gladness  which  at  sundry  times 
Was  almost  riotous,  like  children's  play. 
And  seemed  to  send  out  peals  of  laughter  sweet, 
When  they  a  merry  bridal  train  did  greet, 
As  to  the  church  it  gaily  made  its  way. 
Transported  with  the  rapture  of  the  chimes. 

But  when  the  dead  were  carried  to  their  rest, 
Its  dirges  were  of  all  most  wonderful, 
A  depth  of  sadness — such  as  none  can  tell — 
A  sadness  which  the  gayest  did  compel 
To  see  a  shadow  of  the  ghastly  skull, 
And  yet  to  feel  that  even  the  grave  is  blest. 


In  all  these  cadences  Sordino  found 
A  true  delight,  but  most  in  solemn  dirge. 
For  melancholy  was  his  common  mood, 
Though  sometimes  he  was  in  an  altitude 


i8  The  Lost  Chimes 

Of  such  hilarity,  that  it  did  verge 
Upon  the  wildness  of  a  mind  unsound. 

Indeed,  the  whisper  passed,  he  was  insane. 
Since  only  one  with  shattered  reason  could 
Half  of  his  fortune  spend  for  such  a  thing: 
To  hear  a  set  of  golden  churchbells  ring, 
And  none  of  his  few  friends  quite  understood 
His  pleasure  in  a  funeral  refrain. 

He  loved  to  walk  'mongst  tombs  and  ancient  graves, 

And  read  the  epitaphs  on  crumbling  stones. 

Or  muse  beside  some  gloomy  cypress  tree, 

While  list'ning  to  a  mournful  melody, 

Mark  how  the  harmony  of  all  the  tones 

Did  vanish  far  away  o'er  sunlit  waves. 

He  was  a  seeker  after  harmony. 

Such  harmony  in  which  all  life  shall  blend. 

In  perfect  peace  and  concord,  this  he  heard 

Expressed   in  those   deep   tones  which   moved   and 

stirred 
His  brooding  mind,  and  seemed  an  answer  lend 
To  all  its  questions  of  life's  destiny. 

Unhappiness  had  marred  his  early  life ; 
His  marriage  to  a  girl  who  loved  him  not. 
And  yet  who  lived  within  his  childless  home. 
For  binding  was  the  tie  once  made  by  Rome, 
Until  at  last  her  ways  became  a  blot. 
And  by  her  sins  she  ceased  to  be  his  wife. 

Since  then  he  lived  a  recluse  more  or  less. 
Except  when  boon-companions  with  him  met. 


The  Lost  Chimes  19 

To  dine,  or  rather  to  a  revelry, 
When  wine  and  music  set  his  spirit  free, 
When  he  life's  disappointments  could  forget, 
And  when  some  transient  bliss  he  did  caress. 

But  feasts,  of  such  a  nature,  yearly  grew 
Less  frequent,  for  his  real  self  was  good. 
And  governed  him,  as  he  in  age  advanced; 
And  now  the  chimes  his  being  so  entranced, 
That  all  the  hunger  of  his  heart  found  food 
In  their  sweet  intonations,  ever  new. 

They  fed  his  innate  philosophic  bent, 

And  made  him  delve  into  the  subtlest  lore 

Of  Metaphysics  and  Theology, 

That  he  through  these,  perchance,  might  clearer  see 

The  truth  which  echoed  from  another  shore. 

Each  time  their  sovereign  voice  the  silence  rent. 

And  he  waxed  confident,  the  human  cry 
Is  wafted  somewhere  to  a  higher  sphere, 
Where  it  is  answered  with  a  perfect  peace, — 
That  not  a  soul  from  earth  does  find  release, 
Release  from  darkness  and  the  night  of  fear, 
Without  a  morn  of  better  hope  on  high. 

VI 

The  grave  has,  after  all,  the  truest  peace ; 
The  graveyard  is  the  greatest  moralist; 
And  it  was  wisdom  that  in  days  of  eld. 
The  living  with  the  dead  communion  held, 
For  they  did  worship  in  their  very  midst, 
A  custom  which  in  our  good  times  must  cease. 


20  The  Lost  Chimes 

No  longer  can  we  lay  our  dead  within 

The  shadow  of  the  church,  but  far  away, 

In  some  secluded  spot  where  seldom  seen 

Is  their  last  resting-place,  beneath  the  green, 

Where  some  good  farmer  makes  his  loads  of  hay, 

And  murmurs  that  it  is  in  places  thin. 

We  do  not,  in  this  shallow  age,  endure 

To  think  of  death,  such  thoughts  do  not  amuse. 

But  mock  the  things  which  we  are  striving  after; 

It  tickles  not  our  vein  of  silly  laughter, 

The  subject  is  unpleasant  and  obtruse, 

Of  which  the  preachers  even  are  not  sure. 

The  graveyard,  ne'ertheless,  is  preaching  more 
To  thinking  minds  than  many  homilies, — 
It  tells  in  no  uncertain  language  of 
The  vanity  in  all  which  here  we  love, — 
That  all  our  restless  seeking  after  bliss 
Is  but  the  drifting  to  another  shore. 

That  men  and  empires  have  their  little  day, 
Then  turn  to  dust,  as  others  have  before, 
That  death  is  still  the  monarch  of  the  world, 
Before  whose  feet  all  things  at  last  are  hurled, 
Before  whose  realm  there  is  no  closing  door, 
And  has  for  all  but  one  sad,  darksome  way. 

VII 

Of  all  the  seasons  of  the  year  there's  none 
To  melancholy  people,  like  the  fall, 
That  is,  to  persons  of  poetic  mind, 
For  in  this  season  they  a  beauty  find 
In  earth  and  sky,  which  is  transcending  all 


The  Lost  Chimes  21 

The  wondrous  glory  of  the  summer  gone. 

For  all  its  mellow  beauty  has  a  sadness, 

Twixt  tears  and  smiles,  a  sadness  seen  and  heard 

In  nature's  varied  aspects  and  its  notes, 

Upon  the  air's  dim  haziness  it  floats: 

The  shrill  cry  of  the  migratory  bird, 

And  tunes  of  vintage-reapers  in  their  gladness. 

'Tis  in  the  fatal  drooping  of  the  flower, 
'Tis  in  the  stubble  of  the  fields  and  meads, 
Where  crickets  hold  a  concert  day  and  night, 
'Tis  in  the  stormcloud's  shadow  and  its  flight 
Across  the  waters  and  the  sighing  reeds, 
'Tis  in  the  gold  and  crimson  of  the  bower. 

'Tis  in  the  rain  that  strikes  against  the  pane 
And  leaves  its  diamonds  on  the  bending  straw, 
'Tis  in  the  mist  which  follows  nightly  shower, 
A  floating  mantle  of  the  Morning  Hour, 
'Tis  in  the  swelling  brooks  which  onward  go. 
With  mystic  songs  to  the  majestic  main. 

And  Melancholy  is  the  Truth,  said  one, 
Whose  genius  pierced  through  the  life  of  man, 
Who  hated  cant,  deriding  the  Tartuffe, 
And  saw  beneath  the  robe  the  devil's  hoof, 
A  wandering  exile  from  his  native  land, 
The  fascinating  bard,  the  great  Byron. 

Forgive,  O,  lustrous  name,  that  I  should  use 

Thy  music  for  a  lyre  so  poorly  strung ! 

But  I  did  often  in  my  youth,  even  now. 

Admire  the  glory  of  his  laurelled  brow, 

And  felt  that  truth  and  freedom  ne'er  was  sung. 


22  The  Lost  Chimes 

As  by  this  sufE'ring  highpriest  of  the  Muse. 

O,  all  ye  learned  critics  of  his  art, 
Who  analyze  by  a  mechanic  rule, 
Ye  fail  to  see  the  grandeur  of  his  soul, 
That  soared  above  the  petty  and  the  small, 
Indifferent  to  the  existing  school, 
Preferring  Pegasus  to  any  cart. 

With  the  sublime  he  ever  v\^as  in  tune, 
'Mid  Alpen  heights,  or  on  "the  boundless  deep," 
Or  'mid  the  storm  and  deaf'ning  thunders  crash. 
In  darkest  night,  lit  by  the  lightning's  flash. 
Or  on  the  plains  vt^here  vanished  empires  sleep, 
Time's  desolation  'neath  a  vv^aning  moon. 

His  harp  did  catch  the  minor  music's  flow 
From  nature's  heart  and  human  tragedy. 
And  when  he  laughed  it  was  the  cynic's  smile, 
Though  he  at  heart  was  tender  as  a  child. 
But  death  to  him  had  sweeter  harmony. 
Than  life's  brief  dream  with  its  relentless  woe. 

Likewise  Sordino,  after  years  of  thinking, 

Found  in  the  dirge  the  acme  of  his  search. 

The  home-call  to  a  truer  life's  beginning, 

When  man  shall  cease  from  sorrow  and  from  sinning, 

The  great,  the  final  welcome  of  the  church, 

The  note  of  peace  which  heav'n  to  earth  is  linking. 

VIII 

At  length  there  came  upon  Sordino's  city 
An  enemy  with  armies  great  and  strong, 


The  Lost  Chimes  23 

And  laid  a  siege  about  its  buttressed  walls, 
And  since  the  strongest  bulwark  sometime  falls 
Before  a  cannonading  fierce,  and  long, 
So  did  its  self-defences,  without  pity. 

The  conqueror  did  loot   and  kill  and  ravage, 
While  o'er  it  all  the  chimes  sang  forth  the  hour, 
In  notes  which  shamed  the  horror  of  that  day. 
And  as  he  listened  said :  ''Take  them  away, 
Their  music  hath  upon  my  men  a  pow'r. 
Which  makes  a  saint  out  of  a  bloody  savage!" 

Then  from  the  lofty  tow'r  they  were  removed, 
Against  Sordino's  pleadings,  these  to  spare. 
And  carried  hence,  none  but  the  victor  knew — 
And  captive  toilers  whom  at  last  he  slew, — 
Their  value  he  surmised  and  used  such  care, 
As  for  their  preservation  it  behooved. 

IX 

O,  heinous  War,  Hell's  very  incarnation ! 
Whose  countenance  is  black  with  darkest  hate, 
Whose  eyes  have  serpent's  gleam  of  greed  and  lust. 
And  fiendish  satisfaction,  when  the  dust 
Of  God's  fair  earth  with  precious  blood  is  sate, 
Who  laughs  at  the  destruction  of  a  nation. 

Whose  breath  is  pois'nous  fumes  and  dire  disease, 
And  darting  flames,  devouring  man's  abodes. 
Whose  voice  with  terror  fills  all  living  things, 
And  nought  attracts  except  the  vulture's  wings, 
Its  rending  roar  the  very  heaven  goads 
Until  the  dark'ning  cloud  a-weeping  flees. 


24  The  Lost  Chimes 

Whose  brutish  hands,  with  gore  and  grime  polluted, 
Are  strangling  innocents  and  ripping  wombs, 
And  gagging  Virtue's  cry,  and  sundering 
The  maiden  from  her  mother;  plundering 
The  aged  and  the  sick,  yea,  even  the  tombs 
Of  those  "at  rest"  are  by  this  monster  looted. 

It  rules  the  empires,  and  it  rules  the  seas, 

It  is  the  prince  of  power  in  the  air. 

And  kings  and  nations  worship  it  with  fear. 

But  drunk  with  blood  they  loud  and  wildly  cheer, 

And  think  its  glory  great  beyond  compare. 

Yea,  worth  all  loss  and  human  miseries. 

O,  Christ,  who  stood  on  storm-tossed  Galilee, 

Reproaching  evil,  saying:  'Teace  be  still!" 

So  all  the  fury  of  the  storm  and  wave 

Abated,  and  the  struggling  ship  was  safe. 

Speak  thou  again  that  word  divine,  until 

The  world  shall  hear,  and  war  shall  cease  to  be! 

O,  may  the  day-spring  from  on  High  appear, 
When  this  foul  monster  shall  be  chained  in  Hell, 
When  man,  freed  from  its  tyranny,  shall  be 
The  blessed  of  the  Lord,  in  harmony 
With  every  race  which  under  heaven  dwell, 
And  all  his  life  be  like  a  golden  year ! 

X 

Sordino  from  the  fated  city  fled. 

When  he  beheld  destruction's  hand  engaged 

In  Vandalism  on  the  house  of  God ; 

It  seemed  to  him  an  awful  chastening- rod. 


The  Lost  Chimes  25 


Because  of  sin  which  heaven  had  enraged, 

For  which  the  blood  of  thousands  now  was  shed. 

When  he  perceived  resistance  was  in  vain, 
The  city's  doom  declared  in  blood  and  fire. 
He  left  it  under  cover  of  the  night. 
With  thousand  others.    Pausing  in  his  flight 
He  saw  the  flames  from  the  cathedral  spire 
Leap  'gainst  the  angry  clouds  of  storm  and  rain. 

He  first  sought  safety  at  his  country-seat, 
A  villa  rich  in  orchard  and  in  field, 
Where  he  did  shelter  homeless  refugees. 
And  here,  for  many  days  they  lived  in  peace. 
Until  the  country,  too,  itself  must  yield, 
And  valiant  men  before  the  foe  retreat. 

We  will  not  here  relate  the  conflict's  trend, 

Sufficient  that  at  last  the  enemy 

Was  driven  from  the  land  by  armies  strong. 

And  as  in  days  of  the  heroic  song. 

With  plunder  rich,  across  the  stormy  sea. 

They  to  their  home-land  shores  the  course  did  wend. 

Deep  sadness  fell  upon  Sordino's  heart 
For  all  the  sorrow  of  his  countrymen, 
For  all  the  ravages  wrought  by  the  foe, 
But  most  of  all  his  cup  seemed  overflow 
With  grief  beyond  the  measure  of  our  ken. 
Because  he  from  his  chimes  did  have  to  part. 

He  restless  grew,  no  place  found  him  content. 
No  pleasure  could  his  spirit  satisfy. 
His  former  love  of  study  him  forsook, 


26  The  Lost  Chimes 

And  e'en  on  nature  he  did  cease  to  look 
With  that  true,  heartfelt  joy  of  years  gone  by, — 
His  days  in  gloom  and  ennui  were  spent. 

At  last  he  in  his  heart  resolved  to  go 

Upon  a  journey — he  knew  hardly  where — 

In  quest  of  his  beloved  bells,  though  none 

For  certain  seemed  to  know  where  they  had  gone. 

Still  he  would  travel  over  land  and  mere, — 

With  this  resolve  his  soul  was  soon  aglow. 

XI 

To  France  he  first  of  all  did  make  his  way, — 
Enduring  hardship  on  the  boistrous  sea, 
And  dangers  on  the  shores  of  sullen  foes, 
But  since  to  hearts  of  purpose  strong  no  woes 
Insufferable  seem,  thus  agony, 
Of  any  kind,  could  not  his  zeal  allay. 

He  reached  the  wondrous  city  of  the  Seine, 
The  metropole  of  Europe's  art  and  modes. 
Where  ever  dazzling  Show  and  Pleasure  sweet, 
Like  youths  in  Daphne's  grove  alaughing  meet, 
Where  Grecian  deities  have  their  abodes, 
And  genius  hath  reared  a  matchless  fane.* 

Where  stands  the  armless  Venus,  unto  whom 
Poor  Heine  cried  for  help,  but  none  received, 
Since  pagan  culture  is  quite  impotent 
To  save  a  soul  in  doubt  and  error  spent, 


*The  Louvre. 


The  Lost  Chimes  27 

Though  for  poor  Heine  none  needs  to  be  grieved, 
Whose  glory  mingles  with  the  maid  of  foam. 

Great  Paris,  scene  of  most  momentous  deeds, 
Far  reaching  consequences  to  the  race; 
Where  monarchs  died  like  vilest  criminals, 
While  Anarchy  did  sing  her  bacchanals, 
And  trampled  in  the  mire,  what  once  did  grace. 
The  highest  places  and  most  hallowed  creeds. 

Where  great  Napoleon,  a  demigod. 

Ascended  to  the  pinnacle  of  fame 

And  pow'r  most  dread,  who  made  the  monarchs  quail 

Before  his  genius,  until  a  wail 

Of  anguish  rose  mid  ruin  and  the  shame 

Of  empires,  struck  by  heav'n's  avenging  rod. 

But  even  his  greatness  could  not  have  its  sway 

O'er  equilibriums  by  ages  fixed ; 

His  life  was  like  the  wierd  and  dazzling  light 

Of  some  stray  star  in  its  erratic  flight, 

Or  like  the  image  where  the  metals  mixed. 

The  gold  and  silver  with  ignoble  clay. 

The  head  of  gold,  the  feet  of  clay,  and  so 

The  little  stone  of  Fate  the  giant  felled. 

The  star  erratic  into  exile  sent. 

Its  lustre  in  ignominy  misspent, 

Still  it  had  closed  an  age — whose  doom  was  spelled, 

The  slave  is  free,  the  tyrant,  too,  must  go. 

But  this  was  not  the  France  Sordino  knew, 

Long  time  before  the  Corsican  he  lived. 

Ere  France  had  lost  her  faith  in  monks  and  nuns, 


28  The  Lost  Chimes 

While  chiming  bells  were  more  than  roaring  guns, 
And  in  their  potency  the  land  believed, 
Rejoicing  that  their  fathers'  faith  was  true. 

His  life  fell  in  the  days  of  Charles  the  Great, 
When  wars  were  pleasant  pastime  for  the  kings. 
Who  fought  for  many  reasons  quite  terrestrial, 
But  sometimes,  as  they  thought,  for  things  celestial, 
And  nothing  like  the  latter  valor  brings. 
Inspired  by  bigotry  and  hellish  hate. 

When  France  was  warring  for  her  very  life, 
And  Guise,  the  mighty  lion,  held  at  bay. 
When  Florence  beat  her  foe  at  Marciano, 
And  poor  Sordino  lost  his  sweet  campana, 
'Twas  in  that  age  he  lived  and  made  his  way 
To  Paris,  weary  from  the  worldly  stife. 

He  traveled  like  a  scholar,  incognito. 
And  sought  the  company  of  learned  men. 
Disputing  with  them  in  the  classic  lore; 
This  helped  him  churchly  places  to  explore, 
Where  might  have  been,  perchance,  a  robber's  den, 
Since  that  of  old  has  ever  had  a  ditto. 

"My  Father's  house  ye  made  a  den  of  thieves," 
Said  Christ  to  priests  who  wrought  for  Him  a  cross, 
But  afterwards,  full  often,  in  His  name 
The  priesthood  has  been  guilty  of  the  same : 
What  was  a  sister  nation's  grievous  loss, 
They  proudly  stored  in  dusky  sacristies. 

Such  was  the  plunder  of  the  noble  art, 
Which  Philip  from  the  Netherlands  did  take, 


The  Lost  Chimes  29 

Such,  too,  the  treasures  which  Napoleon 
With  ruthless  warfare  from  the  nations  won ; 
Thus  ever,  where  the  priest  his  sign  doth  make 
Upon  the  sin  which  pierced  the  sacred  heart. 

Such  guilt  may,  even  in  Sordino's  times. 
Have  rested  upon  some  Parisian  church, 
Or  abbey  in  its  strange  seclusiveness, 
But  everywhere  he  found  but  weariness. 
Resulting  from  his  all  persistent  search, 
And  nowhere  did  he  see  nor  hear  his  chimes. 

XII 

Why  should  a  soul  consume  its  power  and  peace 

In  quest  of  that  which  useless  seems  and  vague, 

In  following  mirages  of  ideals. 

And  pass  through  many  harassing  ordeals, 

Endure  the  cruel  sneer  of  mobs  that  plague, 

When  one  may  dwell  'mongst  them  in  mental  ease? 

Why  follow,  like  a  fettered  slave,  one's  longing 
Which   sometimes   leads   through   dun   and   dreary 

wilds. 
O'er  pathless  hills  and  mountain  tops  afar, 
And  then  points  to  a  dim  and  distant  star, 
With  faith  a-smiling,  like  a  little  child's. 
While  spectral  shadows  round  one's  soul  is  throng- 
ing? 

Because  a  gleam — as  from  a  fiery  globe — 
Illumined  souls  before  their  incarnation. 
And  bound  them  with  love's  chain  eternally, 
That  Beauty's  face  for  ever  they  might  see, 


30  The  Lost  Chimes 

And  ne'er  be  happy  in  their  earthly  station, 
Unless  their  life  in  heav'n's  pure  light  they  robe. 

This  gleam  was  ever  glowing  in  the  heart 
Of  him  whom  men  might  say  was  "lacking  sense," 
The  light  of  beauty  and  a  smould'ring  love. — 
Since  strait-laced  folk  may  now  his  acts  reprove, 
And  fearing  this,  we  shall  the  tale  condense. 
Of  what  took  place,  before  he  did  depart. 

One  day  he  met  a  scholar  from  Vienna, 
Whose  home  was  on  the  banks  of  that  fair  stream. 
Renowned  in  history  and  minstrel's  song, 
O'er  whose  blue  waters,  as  they  flow  along, 
Some  olden  romance  hovers  like  a  dream, 
In  saffron  hues  of  terra  di  Sienna. 

There  traveled  with  this  scholar  a  young  woman 
Whose  beauty  smote  Sordino  at  first  sight. 
And  made  him  captive  unaware ;  how  strange ! 
Since  he  had  thought  himself  outside  the  range, 
Now  two  score  ten,  ev'n  of  the  wildest  flight 
Of  any  arrow  from  the  little  bow-man. 

But  such  is  man,  who  thinks,  he  knows  himself, 
And — like  Sordino — very  much  besides. 
Quite  fortified  by  wisdom's  splendid  armor. 
Who  thinks  his  heart  is  dead  to  any  charmer, 
Will  suddenly  discover  that  there  hides 
Within  its  chambers  still  a  little  elf. 

She  was  a  coy,  elusive  little  creature, 
Uncaptured  yet  by  suitors  manifold, 
Her  father's  only  child,  and  motherless. 
Whose  cheerfulness  his  saddened  heart  did  bless. 


The  Lost  Chimes  31 


Whose  eyes  of  Danube  blue  and  hair  of  gold, 
Commingled  with  her  Mother's  Grecian  feature. 

She  was  proficient  in  the  classic  learning, 
Read  Greek  and  Latin  like  her  native  tongue, 
Italian,  too,  and  did  on  Dante  dote. 
And  metaphysics  studied,  but  by  rote, 
For  mental  subtleties  she  was  too  young, 
And  was  to  Hella's  songs  too  often  turning. 

Anacreon  she  knew  by  heart  and  set 

His  lyric  and  erotic  odes  to  tunes, 

And  most  of  all  she  did  with  fondness  love 

His  kpa^fu-q  TreAeta — the  dove 

Of  Venus,  odorous  with  sweet  perfumes, 

Her  payment  for  the  poet's  canzonet. 

And  like  an  Amathusia  she  seemed, 

To  fond  Sordino,  who  had  ne'er  beheld 

Such  loveliness  of  mind  and  body  wed. 

And  then  he  knew  that  'mid  the  past  and  dead 

Of  his  own  life,  no  being  had  compelled 

His  love  like  she  whom  he  a  goddess  deemed. 

But  when  he  saw  her  father's  jealous  care, 
He  did  not  dare  his  hand  to  tender  her, 
But  first  of  all  sought  to  ingratiate 
Himself  to  both,  but  most  to  the  sedate. 
Pedantic  scholar,  ready  to  concur 
In  all  his  views,  though  fallacy  lay  bare. 

Thus  suavity  did  win  the  learned  man. 

And  he  became  Sordine's  ardent  friend, 

And  asked  him  to  return  with  them  to  Wien, 


32  The  Lost  Chimes 

Another  thing  he  failed  not  to  agree  in, 
And  when  their  stay  in  Paris  had  an  end, 
He  gladly  journeyed  with  this  Austrian. 

XIII 

On  Danube's  shores,  'mid  wooded  hills,  a  villa 
Was  smiling  welcome  to  its  lord  and  guest, 
But  most  of  all  to  her — ^whose  name  was  Stella, 
(Her  father  called  her  "pulchra  me'  puella") 
For  whom  the  servants  ready  had  ein  Fest, 
Where  once  encamped  the  hosts  of  Attila. 

A  Florentine  among  Teutonic  scenes, 
Led  thither  by  a  love,  yet  unexpressed, 
Forgot  his  sorrows,  yea,  forgot  his  bells. 
Since  nought  like  love  its  victim  so  compels 
To  full  submission  to  a  sweet  behest, 
The  looks  and  smiles  of  one  still  in  her  teens. 

Her  beauty  was  the  centre  of  all  scenes. 
Her  voice  the  only  music  of  each  sound, 
Her  presence,  sole  embodiment  of  bliss, 
And  heaven  itself  it  would  have  been,  a  kiss. 
For  which  the  Shibboleth  he  had  not  found, 
Behind  the  garden-trees  and  flow'ry  screens. 

On  horseback  did  they  sometimes  ride  along 
The  winding  roads,  and  most  in  early  morn, 
While  yet  the  dew  was  trembling  on  the  blade. 
And  all  the  minstrelsy  of  dreamy  glade 
Was  like  a  stream  Elysian  to  them  borne, 
With  pure  delight,  estranged  to  earthly  wrong. 


The  Lost  Chimes  33 

And  sometimes  on  the  noble  river's  breast 

They  sailed,  below  the  stately  castle  walls, 

Or  hoary  ruins  on  overhanging  cliffs, 

Of  ancient  lore  the  sacred  hieroglyphs. 

Upon  whose  mystery  the  moonlight  falls, 

With  fairy-charm  which  age  of  knighthood  blessed. 

'Mongst  such  are  those  of  famous  Diirrenstein 

Which  once  imprisoned  Richard  Lionhearted, — 

Returning  from  a  holy  pilgrimage, — 

The  English  lion  in  an  unknown  cage, — 

For  ev'n  his  minstrel,  from  whom  he  had  parted, 

Knew  not  what  walls  his  good  lord  did  confine. 

But  he,  the  faithful  Blondel,  sought  him  long. 
And  traveled  in  disguise  through  Germany, 
Until  he  learned  of  some  great  personage, 
On  whom  king  Leopold  had  wreaked  his  rage, 
And  now  he  sought  this  place  most  eagerly, 
Without  an  aid  or  weapon,  but  a  song. 

A  song  which  he,  together  with  the  king. 
Had  made  one  night  among  Judean  hills, 
A  ballad  full  of  stirring  battle-scenes, 
Of  Crusaders  in  strife  with  Saracens, 
Of  victories,  defeats  and  untold  ills. 
And  this  below  the  tow'r  he  now  did  sing. 

And  in  the  stillness  of  the  summer  night 
His  voice  rose  clear  up  to  the  battlement. 
But  none  did  deem  it  but  a  common  lay. 
Except  the  one  who  watched  a  flickering  ray 
Of  one  bright  star,  to  him  the  song's  ascent 
Came  like  God's  angels  on  the  gleam  of  light. 


34  The  Lost  Chimes 

He  reached  the  middle  of  his  song  and  ceased, 
Then  harkened  for  an  answer  from  the  tow'r, 
When  all  at  once  he  heard  his  master's  voice 
Conclude  the  lay,  it  made  his  heart  rejoice. 
He  homeward  sped,  and  soon  a  ransom's  power 
The  monarch  from  captivity  released. 

This  story  Stella  told  the  Florentine, 

Who  found  it  charming  in  her  quaint  Italian, 

But  would  have  substituted  some  fair  lady 

For  doughty  Richard,  though  perhaps  more  shady, 

If  held  a  ransom  by  a  noble  villain, 

Found  by  her  lover  while  she  did  repine. 

A  thing  she  disagreed  with  very  strongly, 

Since  heroes  she  preferred  to  amorettes, 

And  poets,  singing  monarchs  out  of  prison, 

To  luting  minstrels  w^hose  life's  mission 

Is  sentimental  ditties  and  regrets. 

Though  she  in  heart  felt  this  was  stated  wrongly. 

And  such  is,  after  all,  a  maiden's  heart. 
Unknown  to  her,  unsearchable  to  man. 
It  quotes  one  thing,  while  feeling  quite  another, 
Though  guileless  like  a  sister  to  her  brother, 
Her  head  and  heart  are  like  a  sprightly  span 
Of  untrained  colts  which  ever  pull  apart. 

But  we  must  shun  continuous  digression, 
And  turn  to  him,  the  hero  of  our  tale. 
Who  made  the  rather  sad  discover)^ 
That  Stella  ne'ertheless  did  worship  Chivalr} , 
But  not  in  men  of  fifty,  though  all  hale, 
For  he  received  a  "No"  to  his  confession. 


The  Lost  Chimes  35 

Her  heart  cleaved  to  a  youth  in  far  off  land, 
A  youth  of  prowess  in  her  country's  cause, 
Though  not  bethrothed,  she  hoped  the  day  would 

come, 
When  that  should  be,  ev'n  in  her  father's  home. 
This  to  Sordino  a  great  sorrow  was. 
Since  he  had  hoped  to  win  her  heart  and  hand. 

He  said  adieu  to  these  his  friends,  by  chance. 
And  drew  away,  he  cared  but  little  whither. 
Since  wounded  love  has  lost  its  grip  on  life, 
And  sees  it  like  a  night  with  horror  rife, 
Until  the  victim  on  some  morning  blither, 
Does  damn  such  meetings  as  that  one  in  France. 

For  men  at  fifty  may  as  truly  love, 
As  boys  of  fifteen,  and  a  little  truer, 
And,  disappointed,  feel  the  keenest  pang. 
But  yet  I  have  not  heard  a  suitor  hang 
Himself,  because  he  flatly  failed  to  woo  her, 
Nor  worth  the  while  with  rivals,  have  a  row. 

For  wisdom  grows  with  years,  and  manly  reason 
Becomes  the  load-star  of  the  wanderer. 
And  man  doth  cease  to  be  a  woman's  slave, 
For  which  she  may  despise  him  as  a  knave ; 
The  "superman"  she  made,  doth  ponder  her, 
And  knows,  beneath  her  love  is  sometimes  treason. 

XIV 

Vienna  has  a  noble  shrine ;  ev'n  then 
It  vied  in  glory  with  all  Europe's  fanes, 
St.  Stephen; — thither  did  he  go  one  day, 
To  see  its  beauty,  more  perchance,  to  pray, 


36  The  Lost  Chimes 

For  he  would  fain  seek  solace  'mongst  the  manes 
Of  the  departed  than  the  crowds  of  men. 

There  in  the  dimness  of  the  lofty  nave 
He  tarried  long  and  mused  upon  the  past, 
On  visored  knights  who  thither  came  to  find 
Forgiveness,  and  assurance  to  their  mind. 
That  God  did  sanction  that  their  lot  was  cast 
With  them  who  fought  for  the  Redeemer's  grave. 

Their  sacred  task  he  almost  envied  them, 
To  have  a  noble  aim  and  be  assured 
That  heaven  its  benediction  on  it  smiles, 
And  loving  hearts  are  with  the  weary  miles. 
For  such  a  quest  all  things  might  be  endured, 
And  death  itself  be  life's  great  diadem. 

A  mission  and  a  woman's  love  is  all 
A  man  should  crave  for  earthly  happiness, 
Sordino  thought,  while  absently  his  gaze 
Did  fall  upon  the  sweet  Madonna's  face, 
And  he  had  none  of  these  to  lift  and  bless 
His  aimless,  dark  and  love-tormented  soul. 

He  humbly  knelt  before  the  ancient  altar, 

A  stranger  mid  the  holy  solitude. 

But  what  he  said  in  pray'r  must  not  be  told 

To  all  the  world,  whose  cynic  smile  is  cold ; 

Sufficient  that  the  Saviour  on  the  Rood 

Imparted  strength  to  him  who  seemed  to  falter. 

Just  then  a  clear-tongued  bell  rang  from  the  tower, 
With  notes  akin  to  one  of  his  lost  chimes, 
Reminding  him  of  his  neglected  quest; 


The  Lost  Chimes  37 

He  rose  as  if  by  a  new  zeal  possest, 

As  when  a  mountaineer,  who  upward  climbs, 

Is  fascinated  by  the  vision's  power. 

XV 

That  night  he  had  a  dream,  in  which  he  heard 
The  music  of  his  bells  across  the  seas, 
Whose  notes  came  clearly  from  a  purple  haze, 
And  wandered  with  the  breeze  from  place  to  place, 
A-dancing  with  the  billows'  wild  caprice, 
And  mingled  with  the  cries  of  many  a  bird. 

And  floated  round  a  many-colored  sail. 
Half-hoisted,  flapping,  listening  between. 
And  eager  to  depart  for  that  fair  land. 
Whence  came  the  music,  on  whose  purple  strand 
The  ocean  shifted  from  the  dazzling  sheen, 
To  emerald  and  amethystine  pale. 

And  in  the  stern  the  smiling  Stella  stood, 
A-beckoning  to  come  with  her  away. 
And  he  did  hasten  to  the  rocky  shore. 
But  as  he  reached  it,  she  was  there  no  more, 
The  ship  had  carried  her  far  out  the  bay. 
And  in  its  wake  the  waves  were  red  as  blood. 

Then  did  he  weep,  until  a  gentle  hand 

Was  laid  upon  his  head,  now  bending  low, 

And  looking  up,  a  stranger  met  his  eye. 

Who  said:  "Why  art  thou  here,  why  dost  thou  cry? 

The  melodies  which  o'er  the  waters  go. 

Proceed  from  chimes  made  in  thy  native  land; 


38  The  Lost  Chimes 

Thy  own  they  are,  go  seek  them  till  thou  findcst, 

Then  is  thy  journey  ended,  and  the  strife, 

Then  shalt  thou  know  the  joy  which  heaven  will 

give. 
So  overwhelming  that  thou  canst  not  live; 
Now,  henceforth  thou  must  sacrifice  thy  life, 
To  those  who  bear  the  cross  our  God  is  kindest." 

When  from  his  dream  he  woke,  he  pondered  long 

Its  meaning,  and  at  last  waxed  confident, 

It  was  an  angel  that  had  spoken  thus; 

For  calling  in  distress,  God  heareth  us, 

His  unseen  ministers  to  us  are  sent, 

To  give  us  light,  and  weeping  change  to  song. 

He  also  felt  assured,  his  chimes  had  found 
A  place  across  the  seas,  though  not  in  France, 
May  be  in  England  or  some  British  isle, — 
This  thought  provoked  a  melancholy  smile. 
For  Richard's  fame  and  knightly  lance, 
And  Blondel's  song  were  with  it  bound. 

And  he  determined  to  depart  full  soon. 
Yet  one  thing  did  his  heart  desire  to  see, — 
The  face  of  Stella,  which  both  night  and  day 
Did  follow  him,  where-e'er  he  turned  his  way, 
Her  beck'ning  in  his  dream  might  mean  to  be 
A  change  of  mind,  before  another  moon. 

Yea,  might  he  but  behold  those  eyes  once  more. 
Receive  again  one  look  of  kindliness, 
And  feast  his  famished  heart  upon  her  beauty, 
And  hear  her  speak,  as  once,  forgetting  duty. 


The  Lost  Chimes  39 

And  give  him  one  adieu  of  hope  to  bless, 
Then  would  he  seek  his  chimes  on  any  shore. 

XVI 

How  man  is  ever  living  by  illusions ! 
The  more  the  better,  why  then  shatter  them? 
Why  kill  the  birds  of  Paradise  with  science  ? 
Why  meet  old  Superstition  with  defiance. 
Since  in  the  past  her  very  garments'  hem 
Gave  from  life's  guiltiness  sweet  absolution? 

Why  not  let  lore  of  Middle  Ages  reign, 
The  lore  of  fairy — and  of  elfin-land? 
A  world  of  strange,  imaginary  things. 
Which  gave  to  human  mind  its  soaring  wings. 
And  bore  the  simplest  to  a  golden  strand. 
Where  he  forgot  his  poverty  and  pain. 

What  are  your  knowledge  and  inventions  worth, 
If  they  destroy  man's  fleeting  happiness, — 
Illusion's  chief  est  offspring,  and  life's  goal? 
Far  better  then  the  hut  and  back-log  coal 
Than  mansions  lighted  by  the  magic  press, 
But  without  fairies  and  a  glowing  hearth. 

Sordino's  age  was  not  like  ours — of  engines; 
No  Kipling  to  bid  romance  a  farewell, 
No  wonders  in  the  realm  of  rods  and  wheels, 
No  squeaking  phonographs  and  Chaplin  reels. 
No  railroads,  autos,  and,  what  was  as  well. 
No  Zeppelins,  no  bombs  and  submarines. 

His  was  the  vanished  day  of  simple  living. 
Of  child-like  faith  in  man,  and  things  unseen. 


40  The  Lost  Chimes 

When  next  God's  footstool  poet,  prophet  stood, 
And  told  that  all  which  makes  man  glad  is  good, 
That  ever  Eden's  Tree  of  Life  is  green. 
And  to  the  world  its  leaves  of  healing  giving. 

And  such  a  leaf  was  any  happy  dream, — 

An  omen  or  a  message  from  beyond, 

As  truly  as  in  good  Hellenic  days, 

When  at  the  Sibyl's  cave  men  found  their  ways, — 

And  to  Sordino  its  illusion  fond 

Became  a  prophecy,  a  guiding  gleam. 

XVII 

A  Catholic  he  was  and  had  his  passport, 
And  did  not  fear  to  take  a  ship  for  London, 
Though  rumor  owned  it,  things  were  lively  there. 
And  travellers  had  better  take  a  care. 
Where  ''Bloody  Mary"  ruled  with  fierce  abandon. 
Suspecting  strangers  to  be  of  the  base  sort. 

The  base  sort  being  chiefly  protestant. 

Or  sympathizers  with  the  cause  of  Cranmer ; 

And  since  he  was  not  either,  he  might  venture 

To  see  the  city  without  fearing  censure, 

And  so,  at  last,  he  started  out  to  wander 

Through  Germany,  whose  scenes  did  him  enchant. 

At  last  he  reached  the  port  of  old  Calais, 
And  bought  a  passage  'cross  the  English  Channel, 
According  as  the  angel  had  him  bidden. 
Believing  that  his  chimes  were  used  or  hidden 
In  London  town,  where  back  of  pane  or  panel 
He'd  seek  and  find  them  on  some  happy  day. 


The  Lost  Chimes  41 

Now  as  the  wind  bore  gently  'gainst  the  sail, 
And  slowly  eked  their  distance  from  the  shore, 
The  western  sun  lay  ruddy  on  the  wave, 
His  dream  thereby  made  real,  all  things,  save 
The  one  whose  face  his  heart  did  still  adore. 
She  was  not  there  this  pilgrim  strange  to  hail. 

Upon  him  fell  a  sadness,  which  alone 

The  homeless,  longing  traveller  doth  know, 

Augmented  by  a  disappointed  love, 

And  standing  musing  at  the  vessel's  prow, 

The  only  thing  his  wistful  vision  saw, 

Was  that  red  glow  which  on  the  water  shone. 

He  stood  there  when  the  evening  shadows  fell, 
And  darkening  storm-clouds  rose  o'er  England's  coast. 
He  stood  there  when  the  night  closed  from  his  view 
The  shores  of  France,  within  the  deepest  blue, 
Through  which  a  glim'ring  light,  the  uttermost, 
Was  smiling  him  a  dubious  farewell. 

He  stood  there  when  the  waves  began  to  roll. 

The  wind  to  sigh  and  whine  in  sail  and  rope, 

And  night  closed  round  him  with  forebodings  dark 

Of  dangers  for  the  rocking  little  bark. 

On  which  full  many  souls  now  stayed  their  hope, 

That  it  would  bear  them  to  their  journey's  goal. 

But  he  feared  not,  no,  rather  pleasure  found 

In  the  arising  fury  of  the  deep, 

Since  it  expressed  the  sorrow  of  his  soul. 

And  he  did  hear  its  wild  alluring  call. 

Into  its  mystic  rest  at  once  to  leap, 

A  rest  beneath  the  billows'  angry  sound. 


42  The  Lost  Chimes 

And  now  the  elements  did  more  and  more 
Unstop  their  many-voiced  organ-keys: 
The  thunder's  loud  diapason,  the  shriek 
Of  wailing  wind,  the  flopping  and  the  creak 
Of  rigging;  and  the  rain  upon  the  seas. 
The  lightning's  hiss  and  surging  water's  roar. 

But  all  of  this  his  heart  enjoyed  with  glee. 
And  he  refused  to  leave  his  lonely  post. 
Though  drenched,  and  clinging  to  the  vessel's  rail- 
ing, 
A  good  old  ship,  though  sorely  tried,  yet  sailing, 
It  was  her  sturdy  captain's  boast. 
That  she  could  weather  even  the  roughest  sea. 

Sordino  heard  in  all  the  symphony 

Of  nature's  stormy  mood,  the  misery 

And  rage  pent  up  in  her  great  heart,  like  his. 

Thus  all  its  terror  was  to  him  a  bliss. 

He  heard  in  it  majestic  melody. 

Since  all  God's  universe  is  harmony. 

The  wind  grew  chilly  and  at  last  him  drove 
Into  the  hold,  where  slumber  soon  him  claimed; 
And  when  the  morning  dawned,  the  ship  was  near 
The  cliffs  of  England ;  this  a  grateful  tear 
Brought    from    the    anxious   hearts,    which    almost 

shamed 
Sordino  whom  this  sight  left  quite  unmoved. 

XVIII 

Fair  England,  long  by  God  elect  and  blessed, 
His  chosen  land,  as  Palestine  of  old, 


The  Lost  Chimes  43 

From  which  His  light  to  all  the  world  has  shone, 
Where  Freedom  sits  with  monarchs  on  their  throne, 
Where  truth,  more  precious  than  the  ruddy  gold, 
Is  by  her  wise  men  fearlessly  professed. 

Where  he,  the  many-minded  genius 
Arose  to  make  her  name  and  tongue  immortal, 
With  never  dying  characters  and  song, 
Who  knew  the  soul  among  the  vulgar  throng. 
As  well  as  that  of  kings  in  castle  portal. 
And  made  them  all  so  much  akin  to  us. 

Great  Shakespeare,  harbinger  of  Britain's  glory, 

The  child  of  ages,  product  of  a  race, 

Born  in  the  fulness  of  the  time, — the  world  awaking 

To  a  new  day,  its  rusty  fetters  breaking, — 

He  with  his  torch  showed  it  the  better  ways, 

And  linked  the  new  with  ancient  fairy-story. 

Sordino's  times  were  all  with  forces  seething. 
The  new  and  old  at  war  for  mastery, 
But  through  its  hope  and  fear,  its  love  and  hating, 
The  nation  with  its  rulers  vacillating. 
There  came  the  age  when  light  gained  victory. 
And    Freedom    through    the    songs    of    Shakespear 
breathing. 

That  Freedom  then,  as  ever,  bathed  in  blood. 

And  tried  by  fiery  fagot  and  the  stake. 

The  Freedom  of  the  soul  to  trow  and  live. 

As  Christ  commanded,  ev'n  that  men  should  give — 

Like  He — their  lives  for  His  own  Kingdom's  sake, 

For  none  was  free  as  He,  upon  the  rood. 


44  The  Lost  Chimes 

The    voice    of    Freedom    whispered    through    the 

world — 
Like  quick'ning  breezes  of  advancing  Spring, 
Which  wake  the  modest  crocus  'mongst  the  hills, 
And  violets  along  the  laughing  rills, 
And  bid  returning  songster's  music  ring 
Through  budding  woodlands  by  the  mist  impearled. 

Thus  Freedom's  voice  did  wake  the  souls  of  men, 

The  lowly  and  the  mighty  felt  its  power. 

But  most  the  pure  in  heart  who  saw  their  God, 

Their  hearts  rejoiced  ev'n  'neath  the  scourging  rod ; 

Alone  they  stood  in  suffering's  dark  hour. 

But  in  a  strength  which  heaven  did  grant  them  then. 

XIX 

Sordino  came  to  London  just  in  time 
To  view  a  drama,  not  unseldom  seen 
By  Englishmen  in  Mary  Tudor's  reign, 
Who  left  upon  her  country's  page  a  stain 
So  dark  and  bloody  that  scarce  any  queen 
Has  ever  steeped  her  rule  in  fouler  crime. 

From  Newgate  prison,  in  the  early  morn, 

An  old  decrepit  man  was  rudely  led. 

Amid  the  gibes  and  scoffings  of  a  mob. 

Which  drowned  the  words  of  pity  and  the  sob; 

Abuses  fell  upon  his  hoary  head ; 

But  for  his  Master  they  were  gladly  borne. 

They  brought  him  to  an  open  square,  where  stood 
An  upright  stake  with  iron  rings  and  chains, 
Awaiting  his  frail  body  to  entwine, 


The  Lost  Chimes  45 

And  round  about  were  twigs  of  birch  and  pine, 
Piled  up  in  bundles,  groaning  with  the  pains, 
They  should  inflict  on  one  whose  life  was  good. 

The  rising  sun  cast  on  the  earth  a  soft, 

Warm,  trembling  light,  God's  Cherubim  who  told 

To  all  whose  soul  had  vision:  "He  is  Love;" 

At  least  one  marked  it,  smiled  and  looked  above. 

Into  infinity  of  blue  and  gold, 

And  as  his  eyes  were  lifted  thus  aloft. 

He  said :  ''What  profit  hath  a  man,  if  he 
Should  gain  the  entire  world  and  lose  his  soul? 
What  can  he  give  for  it  in  true  exchange? 
This  is  the  truth  which  saves  or  doth  avenge, 
And  now  as  I  am  here  to  give  my  all, 
I  thank  thee  Father  for  the  Victory." 

A  pray'r  which  followed  was  by  clamor  drowned. 
The  torch  applied  set  loose  the  crackling  flame, 
Which  leaped  about  his  limbs  and  to  his  face, 
Extinguishing  the  glory  of  his  gaze, 
And  silencing  the  lisping  of  His  name 
Who  hath  with  immortality  him  crowned. 

XX 

I  said.  Sordino  was  a  Catholic, 
But  more  than  that,  a  true  philosopher. 
And  at  this  sight  within  himself  he  mused; 
"How  is  the  Gospel  of  the  Christ  abused 
By  those  who  should  its  saving  love  confer, 
Upon  a  world  with  sin  and  hatred  sick!" 


46  The  Lost  Chimes 

"The  light  of  love  changed  into  flames  of  hell, 
The  praise  of  joy  to  wails  of  agony, 
The  cross  into  a  fetish  of  dark  fear. 
Around  the  which  the  fiendish  demons  leer. 
While  erring  souls  are  shackled  to  the  tree, 
And  fagots  blaze  amid  the  rabble's  yell." 

"How  terrible  is  zeal  without  true  knowledge; 
How  awful  bigotry,  born  by  religion! 
How  black  is  priestcraft,  bred  by  selfishness, 
Before  whose  judgment-seat  there's  no  redress 
For  any  sympathizer  with  rebellion 
Against  the  schemes  of  Jesuitic  college!" 

His  tender-heartedness  aroused  such  thought; — 
He  paused,  and  crossed  himself,  perhaps  he  sinned,- 
In  thinking  thus,  and  carried  thus  away 
By  that  sad  spectacle,  and  then  did  say. 
Within  himself:  "May  be  the  fellow  grinned, 
Because  his  faith  a  glory  to  him  brought." 

"Was  that  the  motive  which  led  him  to  suffer? 
Then  was  he  despicable  more  than  they 
Who  brazed  themselves  his  dirty  flesh  to  fry. 
Then  was  his  smoke  a  stench  beneath  the  sky, 
His  ashes  unfit  for  his  country's  clay. 
He,  not  a  martyr,  but  a  worthless  duffer." 

"If  pride,  quite  obstinate,  of  fancied  light. 
Diviner,  truer  than  of  mother  church, 
Did  actuate  the  Protestants  to  die. 
Then  there  is  justice  in  the  people's  cry, 
For  such  an  arrogance  the  truth  will  smirch. 


The  Lost  Chimes  47 

And  rob  its  scepter  of  celestial  right." 

Thus  did  philosopher  and  churchman  speak, 
And  now  the  poet  whispered :  "Peace  be  still! 
Where  are  thy  chimes  ?  All  England  needs  their  tone 
Of  harmony  to  make  the  people  one ; 
Thy  golden  chimes !  At  last  their  music  will 
Interpret  all  which  men  through  sufE'ring  seek." 

XXI 

Pained  and  disgusted  with  the  sight,  he  passed 
Out  of  the  city — 'twas  not  very  far 
Before  he  struck  the  open  country-road — 
Which    led    to    Shoreditch    church,    and    meadows 

broad. 
And  fields  of  golden  grain,  where  nought  did  mar 
The  peace  of  all  that  was  with  nature  classed. 

Amid  a  field,  below  a  hillock's  slope, 

He  saw  a  man  at  work,  also  a  lad. 

With  sickles  in  their  hands,  a-cutting  grain, 

He  stopped  and  looked  at  them,  the  boy  with  pain 

Seemed,  raise  himself,  when  he  a  bundle  had 

Completed,  trying  with  his  sire  to  cope. 

And  while  he  stretched  his  aching,  weary  back. 
He  gazed  across  the  field  with  longing  look, 
A-measuring  how  many  days  'twould  take 
To  reach  the  end — the  field's  dividing  stake, 
Then  spit  into  his  hands  and  firmly  took 
His  place  behind  his  father's  cleancut  track. 

This  incident  Sordino  much  impressed, 


48  The  Lost  Chimes 

He  read  at  once  the  feelings  of  the  boy, 
That  not  alone  in  body,  but  in  mind 
He  suffered,  sought  deliverance  to  find, 
And  so  he  said :  "I  will  the  lad  employ, 
I   need    a   guide   whom   heav'n   with   dreams   hath 
blessed." 

The  father  would  not  listen  to  Sordino, 
Whose  English  he  but  scarcely  understood. 
And  half  afraid  of  this  so  swarthy  stranger. 
In  times,  like  those,  so  full  of  lurking  danger. 
But  when  he  saw  his  gold,  it  seemed  quite  good. 
And  gave  consent  to  let  his  helper  go. 

But  not  before  his  mother  had  been  seen, 

Her  sanction  gained,  for  what  he  felt  some  fears, 

And  so  they  left  the  sheaves  of  ripened  wheat. 

And  sought  their  humble  dwelling's  blithe  retreat, — 

A  little  cottage,  thatched,  and  gray  with  years, 

Amid  the  trees  and  garden-beds  still  green. 

And  here  they  tarried  till  the  close  of  day, 

Till  Vesper-bells  proclaimed  its  toil  should  cease, 

Yea,  tarried  over  night,  for  mother's  heart 

Is  more  reluctant  with  the  child  to  part. 

But  in  the  morn  she  said :  "Do  as  ye  please," 

And  gave  her  blessing,  and  they  went  away. 

And  as  they  left,  the  peals  from  Shoreditch  tow'r 
Came  on  the  crisped  morning  air  like  streams 
Of  living  water  from  the  Holy  Mount, — 
Where  priests  with  silver  basins  at  its  fount 
Oblation  brought  to  golden  Cherubims, 
Amid  rejoicing  of  the  festive  hour. 


The  Lost  Chimes  49 

Their  cleansing  tones,  refreshing  to  the  mind, 
And  nature,  smiling,  drank  their  harmony. 
The  crystal  dew  vibrating  with  delight, 
A  veil  of  mist,  the  garment  of  the  night. 
Hung  o'er  the  deepest  valley,  seemed  to  flee 
Before  their  dancing  with  a  timid  wind. 

Sordino  felt  their  rapture  like  a  flow 

Of  scented  warmth,  which  crept  through  limbs  and 

brain, 
And  to  his  heart,  where  lotus-like  it  stayed. 
Until  each  chilling  sorrow  was  allayed, 
And  joy  of  other  years  returned  again, 
Enkindling  in  his  face  a  new  life's  glow. 

The  silent,  wond'ring  lad,  who  followed  him, 

Had  often  heard  this  gladsome  melody, 

It  was  a  part  of  him  from  infancy, 

It  cast  upon  his  soul  a  witchery, 

From  which  no  mood  or  attitude  was  free, 

And  claimed  him  for  a  realm  remote  and  dim. 

It  was  the  springtime  of  the  golden  age 

Of  England's  minstrelsy,  and  here  and  there 

A  youth  did  feel  its  heart-throb  'mid  the  flowers, 

And  saw  sweet,  flitting  forms  amongst  the  bowers, 

And  heard  transporting  voices  in  the  air, 

Which  captured  him  and  did  his  life  engage. 

And  though,  perhaps,  he  never  won  a  name, 
And  though  it  spoiled  his  life  for  "useful  things," 
And  Fate  endowed  him,  as  she  did  a  Greene, 
With  wretched  penury  and  squalor  mean, — 
Still  he  who  sees  and  hears  and  gladly  sings 


50  The  Lost  Chimes 

Hath  recompense,  transcending  gold  and  fame. 

Woe,  unto  him  around  whose  cradle  danced 
The  fairies  on  the  golden  morning  ray, 
Anointing  him  with  essence  of  the  rose, 
Into  whose  soul  the  magic  music  flows. 
To  shape  itself  into  a  deathless  lay. 
Who  all  denies,  by  earthliness  entranced. 

To  him  no  smiling  faces  shall  appear, 
When  comes  the  eve  of  life  with  lowering  sky, 
But  voices  chiding  him  with  cowardice, 
Because  he  chose  the  lucre  and  the  ease, 
And  did  his  calling  wilfully  deny, — 
To  him  no  light  shall  be, — but  darkness  drear. 

XXII 

'Twas  here  that  from  the  church  and  nature  rose 
The  English  stage,  when  he,  the  stable-groom, 
Should  write  the  Drama  of  Humanity, — 
The  greatest  poet  of  all  history, 
Who  mingled  laughter  with  the  deepest  gloom, 
Life's  music  with  its  sterner  prose. 

The  modern  drama, — modern  Ishmael, 
Begotten  of  religion ;  like  a  youth. 
Fair,  myrtle-crowned,  and  slender,  innocent. 
With  dancing  measures  upon  pleasure  bent; 
Then  cast  away  by  "guardians  of  the  truth," 
And,  homeless,  nourished  at  the  secret  well. 

And  when  his  great  Emancipator  came, 

He  dared  to  dance  and  frisk  on  country  lanes, 


The  Lost  Chimes  51 

But  not  in  London  town  (his  mother's  there)  ; 
Until  the  king  of  poesy  laid  bare 
His  ancient  birthright,  lost  'mongst  Grecian  manes, 
Then  waxed  he  strong  and  daily  gained  in  fame, 

And  found  a  home  within  the  city  wall, 
Where  still  he  dwells,  and  ever  will  abide, 
In  his  duplicity,  since  life  is  very  double, 
A-laughing,  crying,  at  its  fleeting  bubble, 
Appearing  on  the  restless  ocean-tide, 
In  morning  splendor,  or  dusk  even-fall. 

Still  Ishmael,  to  Sarah's  first  begotten. 
Still  preached  against  by  heaven's  best  elect, 
And  he  returns,  at  times,  with  taunts  and  gibes  ; 
But  if  they  put  away  some  modern  scribes. 
And  did  great  Shakespeare's  drama  resurrect. 
Our  modern  stage  would  not  be  half  as  rotten. 

Regenerated,  cleansed,  what  ally  this 

To  all  that's  true  and  noble  under  heaven! 

A  mirror  of  ourselves?   Much  more!  A  vision 

Of  life's  ideal,  and  its  highest  mission, 

And  though  the  weary  heart  must  mirth  be  given, 

The  thrill  of  truth's  clear  gleam  is  better  bliss. 

So,  let  the  true  born  help  the  quondam  alien. 
They  need  each  other  in  their  common  quest 
For  happiness,  the  rainbow's  pot  of  gold. 
And  let  the  secret  of  the  quest  be  told 
By  each,  in  love,  that  each  may  do  his  best 
To  lift  and  cheer,  where  life  is  low  and  failing. 


52  The  Lost  Chimes 

XXIII 

Into  the  city  on  the  Thames  they  walked, 
And  to  the  inn,  where  he  had  rented  rooms. 
An  hospitable  inn,  by  no  means  small, 
Of  quaint  designs,  o'ershadowed  by  some  tall. 
Outspreading  elm  trees,  in  whose  pleasant  glooms 
The  thievish  rooks  to  one  another  talked. 

And  there  were  gardens  in  its  rear,  where  fruit 
Of  cherries  and  of  pears  were  sweetly  ripe, 
For  London  still  had  nature  in  its  heart, 
Long  since  ejected  by  a  soul-less  mart; 
Though  knowing  statesmen  may  its  grandeur  pipe, 
Another  Shakespeare  it  makes  ever  mute. 

Here  did  Sordino  hope  to  respite  find 

From  journeys  which  accounted  seemed  but  vain; 

He  would  his  simple  country-lad  engage 

In  spying  bells,  and  in  the  work  of  page, 

For  such  a  boy  he  easily  could  train: 

He  had  an  honest  heart  and  ready  mind. 

This  tavern  was,  however,  seldom  quiet. 
But  oft  for  merry  souls  a  rendezvous, — 
For  wits  and  poets,  chiefly  for  the  latter, 
To  whom  the  outside  of  the  social  platter 
Was  less  important  than  the  inside  true, 
Whose  highest  law  was  their  own  spirit's  fiat. 

When  God  makes  poets  He's  misunderstood. 
The  mixture  is  too  much  for  common  folk ; 
The  blending  of  all  things  in  earth  and  heaven, 


The  Lost  Chimes  53 

Of  light  and  darkness,  unto  them  is  given, 
An  angel  and  a  fiend  in  common  yoke. 
The  great  extremes  of  evil  and  of  good. 

As  in  time's  morn  the  light  from  darkness  sprang, 
And  cosmic  beauty  out  of  Chaos  rose, 
Thus  out  of  reeking  stews  and  taverns  came 
A  Marlow's  strong,  illuminating  flame, 
And  stars  of  magnitudes  did  follow  close, — 
The  morning  stars  which  rapt  together  sang. 

XXIV 

The  sights  of  London  were  but  meagre  then. 
Compared  with  all  its  wonders  of  to-day; — 
Still  each  age  thinks  his  own  the  grandest,  best, 
A  truth,  may  be,  why  else  the  ceaseless  quest? 
Though  it  is  left  to  Wisdom  yet  to  say, 
If  things  are  worse  or  better  among  men. 

The  Tow'r  knew  greater  anguish  in  those  days, 
The  bridge  gave  terror  with  its  ghastliness 
Of  hoary  heads  uplifted  high  on  spits ; 
The  palaces  had  dungeons,  vermin-pits 
Of  heartless  cruelties  and  grim  distress; 
And  halls  of  splendor  had  dark,  hidden  ways. 

But  there  was  sunlight  on  the  crimson  tile. 
And  there  was  blueness  in  the  open  sky, 
And  breezes  bore  the  scent  of  rose  and  thyme, 
As  in  the  morn  they  met  St.  Mary's  chime. 
No  cloud  of  smoke,  as  now,  oppressed  the  eye. 
And  made  the  gentle  breath  of  heaven  vile. 


54  The  Lost  Chimes 

And  men  were  frank  and  honest  with  their  friends, 
And  also  frank  and  honest  with  their  foes, 
And  either  loved  with  nakedness  of  soul, 
Or  fought  until  one  of  the  two  did  fall, 
Strong  was  the  love,  and  hard  the  hater's  blows, 
While  now  his  love  and  hate  man  subtly  blends. 

Sordino  loitered  much  in  lane  and  street, 
And  listened  well  to  every  swinging  bell. 
And  searched  the  city  for  his  treasure  lost, 
But  not  a  sound  was  from  a  steeple  tost. 
Of  its  abiding-place  his  ear  to  tell. 
Nor  did  a  single  clue  his  vision  meet. 

He  daily  searched,  until  the  winter  fog 
Began  to  close  about  the  sightly  town, 
Then  melancholy  claimed  him  for  her  own. 
And  lest  he  should  be  lost  in  grief  and  groan. 
He  sought  the  company  of  those  who  drown 
The  sorrows  of  their  hearts  with  ale  and  grog. 

XXV 

Once  poets  tuned  their  lyres  in  praise  of  Bacchus, — 
Forsooth  he  was  a  mirth-inspiring  god — 
All  garlanded  with  leaves  of  blooming  vine, — 
Adored  by  Aphrodite  and  the  Nine, — 
Bacchant  and  Satyr  at  his  worship  trod 
Fantastic  measures,  such  as  now  would  wrack  us. 

Bards  have  turned  preachers,  which  is  for  the  better. 
And  no  more  should  their  songs  extol  his  name. 
But  rather  sound  the  anguish  and  the  woe 
Brought  upon  man  by  this  relentless  foe, 


The  Lost  Chimes  55 

Take  up  the  note  of  poverty  and  shame, 
And  ills  of  drunkenness  which  man  enfetter. 

Until  his  pow'r,  in  human  nature  seated, 
As  on  a  throne,  shall  no  more  have  its  sway, — 
When  man  shall  cease  forgetfulness  to  borrow, — 
Of  failures,  disappointments  and  dark  sorrow, — 
From  his  delusions,  which  no  ills  allay, — 
Until — until — his  reign  shall  be  defeated! 

But  judge  not  harshly  those  who  suffer  most. 
The  victims  of  the  cup,  the  self-condemned. 
Who  fight  a  hopeless  battle  and  go  down ; 
Show  love  and  pity,  rather  than  a  frown. 
For  though  the  sot  by  men  may  be  contemned, — 
Still  there  is  One  who  came  to  save  the  lost. 

We  know  but  little  why  he  gave  himself 
An  abject  slave  to  appetite  and  lust. 
What  passions  of  past  generations  found 
In  him  their  culmination,  held  him  bound, 
And  though  he  struggled  hard,  it  seems  he  must 
Into  the  depths  of  sin  and  darkness  delv. 

Perchance  ambition  was  his  Waterloo, 
And  having  lost  the  last  and  strongest  trench, 
He  spends  a  starless  night  mid  weeping  gloom. 
Abandoning  life's  dreams  to  their  dark  tomb, 
He  seeks,  at  last,  his  soul's  remorse  to  quench 
With  what  he  knows  his  manhood  will  undo. 

Perhaps  the  fire  of  love  has  been  extinguished, 
And  left  but  cooling  ashes  on  the  hearth, 
And  one,  whose  face  was  radiant  with  light, 


56  The  Lost  Chimes 

Moves  'round  him  like  a  shadow  of  the  night, 
And  since  his  life  has  lost  its  highest  worth, 
He  turns  to  Rum,  and  soon  is  all  relinquished. 

XXVI 

When  men  are  drunk,  they  often  babble  things, 
They  scarce  would  whisper  to  a  bosom-friend. 
But  when  the  wine  has  loosened  sense  and  tongue. 
The  hidden  secret  to  the  crowd  is  flung, 
And  with  an  oath  its  owner  will  defend 
A  truth  exaggerated,  till  the  ring 

Of  brawlers  doth  declare  it  is  a  lie. 

For  which  he  ought  to  buy  a  round  of  drinks ; 

Thus  in  that  tavern,  on  a  foggy  night, 

A  group  was  sitting  in  the  candle-light, 

Around  a  table,  drinking,  till  their  blinks 

Did  tell  that  Reason  was  about  to  fly. 

And  one,  a  bearded,  lion-voiced  sailor. 

Began  to  tell  of  escapades  at  sea, — 

Of  war  in  foreign  lands,  of  victory. 

In  such  a  loud  and  boasting  way,  that  three 

Out  of  the  five     did  laugh  derisively, 

And  said,  he  was  a  bandy-legged  tailor. 

At  which  he  swore  and  drained  his  tankard  dry, 
And  called  them  all  a  motley  lubber-gang. 
And  rose  to  go,  but  then  his  friends  cried  "no," 
'*You  must  not  leave  us  yet,  for  dontcher  know. 
The  best  is  coming?   Say  how  did  ye  hang 
Those  tinklers  in  the  tow'r? — Let's  have  a  rye!" 


The  Lost  Chimes  57 

Sordino  being  witness  to  this  scene, 
Approached  the  table  and  said :  "Gentlemen, 
Allow  me  to  provide  a  drink  for  all," 
A  sentence  which  upon  their  ears  did  fall 
With  some  surprise,  since  he  a  stranger ;  then 
A  grin  of  acceptation  in  their  mien. 

And  he  sat  down  with  them,  and  freely  drank, 
And  paid  for  all  the  drinks,  the  barmaid  poured, 
Thus  made  them  almost  feel,  he  was  their  host, 
And  when  he  ordered  for  their  midnight  lunch  a 

roast. 
They  sang  his  praise;  the  grizzly  sailor  roared: 
"Say,  fellow,  have  you  robbed  the  Venice  bank?" 

They  revelled,  and  caroused,  and  stories  told. 
The  most  of  which  were  tavern-coarse  and  smutty, — 
The  sailor  being  richest  in  his  stores 
Of  drunken  bouts  and  fights  on  foreign  shores, 
But  as  the  chemist  in  the  chimney-sut  finds  tutty. 
Thus  sought  Sordino  in  this  slag  the  gold. 

For  he  had  thought  at  first  to  see  a  glint 

Of  something  in  the  "tinklers  and  the  tower," 

And  now  he  tried  to  draw  the  sailor  out 

On  this  allusion  in  his  fellow's  flout ; — 

An  instant's  hesitation  and  a  lower, 

And  then  the  old  tar  understood  the  hint. 

"The  tinklers,  aye,  ha!  ha!  those  merry  bells. 
We  carried  up  from  France  to  Limerick, — 
And  nearly  lost  in  a  confounded  gale, — 
Aye,  aye,  old  top,  by  these  there  hangs  a  tale, — 
I  heard  from  one  who  wounded  lay  and  sick, — 
A  soldier  who  had  seen  a  hundred  hells." 


58  The  Lost  Chimes 

''Those  bells  were  taken  in  a  bloody  war 
Sir, — what  is  that  to  thee? — another  drink!" 
Sordino  forced  a  laugh,  and  ordered  wine, — 
A  bottle  of  old  port — none  did  decline, 
But  drank,  until  the  weak  began  to  wink. 
And  Silence  made  encroachment  round  the  bar. 

The  sailor  bibbed  the  longest,  ate  his  roast, 
And  told  Sordino,  how  the  bells  were  sold 
To  a  great  churchman  in  the  Irish  isle. 
That  they  are  ringing  daily  from  a  pile 
Most  venerable,  whence  no  price  of  gold 
Can  e'er  return  them  to  their  native  coast. 

Sordino  knew,  they  were  his  own,  and  smiled 
To  learn  the  place  where  strangely  they  had  landed, 
And  when  the  sailor  swore  it  all  was  true. 
Sordino  from  the  company  withdrew, 
But  not  before  it  was  of  him  demanded. 
That  what  he  heard  for  ever  must  be  "tiled." 

XXVII 

Sordino  looking  for  his  boy  that  night. 

Found  him  departed,  whither,  none  could  tell ; 

They  sought  him  in  the  tavern  and  the  street. 

But  all  in  vain ;  the  watchman  on  his  beat 

Was  queried,  as  he  passed  and  cried:  "All's  well!" 

And  laughingly  replied:  "He's  out  of  sight!" 

The  boy  had  weary  grown  and  sick  for  home, 
When  he  his  master  saw  with  drunkards  douce, 
And  dared  the  denseness  of  the  fog,  to  find 


The  Lost  Chimes  59 

That  place  which  daily  occupied  his  mind, — 
The  little  cottage  'mongst  the  trees,  recluse, 
Seemed  grander  than  the  city's  pillard  dome. 

A  dog  might  find  its  way,  but  not  a  child, 
Through  such  a  maze,  bewildering  and  weird ; 
He  thought,  he  surely  knew  the  homeward  road, 
And  eagerly,  for  hours,  he  onward  strode, 
But  only  to  discover,  what  he  feared : 
He  was  as  lost  as  'mid  a  forest  wild. 

The  Thames  was  like  a  spectral  realm  of  sound 
And  shapes :  The  masts  of  many  ships  at  tow 
Were  dimly  visible,  and  larger  seemed, — 
Like  mighty  giants,  as  the  moonlight  beamed 
Into  the  woolly  fog.    The  sounds  below : — 
The  river's  song,  and  baying  of  a  hound. 

All  else  was  silent  till  a  sailor  coughed 

And  damned  the  dog  which  thus  disturbed  his  sleep ; 

And  now  the  wand'ring  lad  called  out  in  fear: 

'Tm  lost,  oh,  help  me,  who-soe'er  is  near!" 

To  which  a  voice  arose,  as  from  the  deep: 

"It  is  a  lubber  straying  from  his  croft." 

But  then,  ere  long,  there  was  a  splash  of  oar, 
And  muffled  talking  twixt  two  drowsy  tars. 
The  boy  took  heart,  since  rescue  was  at  hand ; 
But  when  he  found  himself  pushed  out  from  land, 
And  lifted  to  a  deck  of  lofty  spars. 
He  kind  of  wished  himself  back  to  the  shore. 

The  sailors  showed  him  to  a  bunk  for  rest. 
"Yea,  in  the  morn  the  fog  may  lifted  be, 


6o  The  Lost  Chimes 

So  you  can  find  your  way,"  thus  cheered  they  him ; 
But  as  of  old  the  halfbaked  Ephraim 
Howled  on  his  bed,  so  would  now  even  he, 
Had  not  submission  been  for  him  the  best. 

XXVHI 

The  fog  grew  lighter  with  the  dawn  of  day, 
As  did  the  boy's  heart  after  night  of  weeping. 
He  early  'rose,  and  would  have  left  the  ship, 
But  since  for  boatswain  he  possessed  no  tip, 
He  dared  not  rouse  him  from  his  pleasant  sleeping, 
And  distance  from  the  shore  compelled  his  stay. 

At  last  both  crew  and  passengers  awoke, 
And  all  gazed  at  the  lad,  some  with  a  smile, 
When  of  his  rescue  told,  some  poked  their  fun; 
But  'mongst  the  passengers  his  eye  met  one. 
Who  read  the  trouble  of  a  homesick  child. 
And  in  strange  accents  kindly  to  him  spoke. 

She  seemed  to  him  the  fairest  he  had  seen, 

A  spirit,  from  the  silv'ry  mist  emerged, 

A  gleam  of  light,  strayed  from  the  hidden  sun. 

Enlivening  the  sodden  scene  and  dun, 

A  Venus  from  the  foam  where  billows  surged, 

Born  to  be  worshiped,  or  to  be  a  queen. 

But  what  she  said  to  him  was  quite  Egyptian, 
It  mattered  not,  since  he  could  understand 
The  sympathy  and  goodness  of  her  heart, 
A  thing  much  better  than  linguistic  art 
In  any  woman,  yea,  in  any  man, — 


The  Lost  Chimes  6i 

Though  speech  is  fine,  the  deed  is  much  more  Chris- 
tian. 

She  gave  him  food  and  wine  and  cheered  his  soul, 
Then  left  him  to  himself,  an  hour  or  so, 
When  came  the  captain  and  thus  to  him  spake: 
"Art  thou  a  stranger  here,  or  canst  thou  make 
Thy  way  alone  and  knowest  where  to  go, 
When  lifted  is  the  fog's  distressing  pall?" 

To  which  the  lad  replied:  '*!  know  the  town, 
When  I  can  see  its  street  and  thoroughfare, 
And  now  can  find  my  way  up  to  the  inn, 
Where  dwells  my  master;  oh,  it  was  a  sin, 
That  I  deserted  him,  since  he  may  care! 
I  will  return  to  him; — please  let  me  down!" 

To  which  the  captain  said :  "We  have  on  board 

Two  passengers  who  wish  an  inn  to  find. 

And  canst  thou  guide  them  to  such  place,  my  son? 

That  lovely  lady,  whom  you  met,  is  one, 

The  other  is  her  father,  noble,  kind, 

A  foreign  scholar,  and  methinks,  a  lord." 

The  boy  responded  readily  to  this, 

As  mid-day  drew  on  clear,  became  their  guide, 

Up  to  that  quite  pretentious  hostelry, 

Half  glad,  half  'fraid  his  master  there  to  see, 

But  ignorant  how  fate  strode  by  his  side, 

And  how  it  seldom  seems  to  go  amiss. 


62  The  Lost  Chimes 

XXIX 

That  afternoon  Sordino  sought  his  place 
Among  the  garden-trees,  a  rustic  seat, 
Which  during  gloomy  days  had  stood  alone, 
But  now  again  the  sun  so  brightly  shone. 
Inviting  him  to  this  belov'd  retreat. 
Though  it  had  lost  the  summer's  tender  grace. 

And  whom  should  here  his  pensive  eyes  behold, 
But  one  of  whom  he  at  that  moment  thought, 
And  as  he  met  her  quite  astonished  gaze, 
Surprise  brought  strong  emotions  to  his  face. 
He  knew  not  what  strange  magic  this  had  wrought. 
His  heart  beat  fast,  his  hands  grew  clammy  cold. 

She  smiled,  and  greeted  him  in  his  own  tongue, 
Then  wist  he  that  it  was  no  mere  illusion, 
But  Stella,  yea,  the  Stella  of  his  dreams. 
So  strange,  so  sweetly  strange,  it  ever  seems 
To  lonely  lovers  such  a  rapt  confusion, 
When  that  which  separates  aside  is  flung. 

And  yet  it  did  not  give  to  him  the  joy 
Of  one  who  knows  why  his  beloved  came; 
He  wondered  much,  but  did  not  dare  to  ask. 
His  self-control  became  a  subtle  mask, 
Which  hid  the  raging  of  the  inward  flame, 
That  might  again  a  newborn  hope  destroy. 

A  woman's  eye  can  look  through  lover's  feint, 
Behind  his  mask  she  sees  the  naked  soul. 
And  laughs  with  mingled  sympathy  and  scorn, 
She  suffers  not  because  he  is  forlorn, 


The  Lost  Chimes  63 


And  rather  likes  to  see  him  prostrate  fall 
Before  her  feet,  as  if  she  were  a  saint. 

And  Stella  knew,  it  racked  Sordino's  mind 
Why  she  was  there,  but  only  this  she  told : 
"My  father  and  myself  last  night  arrived 
In  London  harbor,  but  the  fog  contrived 
To  keep  us  captives  in  the  vessel's  hold. 
Until  this  morn,  when  we  this  place  did  find." 

"How  found  ye  it?"  Sordino  dared  to  question. 
"A  lad  who  said  his  master's  lodging  here. 
Did  guide  us,  and,  methinks  I  see  him  there." 
Sordino  turned  and  saw  the  boy's  despair. 
And  called  him  in  a  tone  that  felled  his  fear. 
He  came,  and  was  forgiv'n  without  confession. 

And  Stella  took  his  hand  and  stroked  his  head, 

Sordino  wishing  that  he  was  the  lad, 

He  found  a  coin  and  told  him  to  be  gone, 

And  like  the  earth  from  which  the  fog  was  blown. 

The  boy  felt  in  his  heart  relieved  and  glad, 

And  brushed  his  master's  clothes  and  made  his  bed. 

Alone,  the  conversation  of  the  two 
Was  chiefly  about  trifles  and  the  weather. 
With  many  pauses,  since  so  much  did  press 
Sordino's  heart,  so  much  he  would  confess. 
And  since  it  was  so  strange  to  be  together 
With  her  whom  he  adored,  yet  did  not  know. 

Soon  Stella,  pleading  cold,  arose  to  go. 
Without  a  promise  of  another  meeting. 
Sordino  feeling  chills  about  his  heart, 


64  The  Lost  Chimes 

And  as  they  from  the  garden  did  depart, 
That  little  hour  so  full,  and  yet  so  fleeting, 
Seemed  to  him  fatal,  and  mal  a  propos. 

XXX 

Love's  like  a  great  musician,  whose  deft  fingers 

Control  the  hidden  pow'r  of  organ-keys ; 

He  plays  upon  the  soul  with  mastery, 

And  uses  all  the  stops  of  melody. 

Of  deepest  sorrow,  highest  ecstacies, 

Of  stormy  fugues,  or  tune  that  softly  lingers. 

Thus  did  he  play  upon  Sordino's  heart, 
When  to  himself  he  suddenly  was  left; 
A  flood  of  passion  overwhelmed  his  soul, 
In  which  he  heard  himself  her  name  to  call, 
And  spent,  did  leave  him  painfully  bereft, 
Yea,  caused  unmanly,  bitter  tears  to  start. 

He  wiped  away  the  furtive  tear,  and  went 
Into  the  bar-room,  where  he  called  for  wine. 
And  freely  drank,  then  entering  the  street, 
The  sailor  of  last  night  he  chanced  to  meet. 
Who  told  him,  for  a  drink  he  sore  did  pine, 
And  had,  alas!  his  very  farthings  spent. 

Sordino  handed  him  sufllicient  coin 
To  make  him  happy  for  another  night; 
He  thanked  him  most  profusely,  and  betook 
Himself  into  the  tavern's  pleasant  nook, 
Where  he  did  find  his  life's  supreme  delight, — 
A  cup  of  sack  and  others  it  to  join. 


The  Lost  Chimes  65 

Sordino  sauntered  carelessly  along, 
And  with  no  aim  but  to  assuage  his  mind, 
Which  wandered  twixt  a  ray  of  hope  and  fear, 
When  all  at  once  he  saw  her  drawing  near, 
In  company  with  one  whose  eye  did  find 
Her  smile  surcharged  with  an  affection  strong. 

A  moment's  glance  told  of  his  manly  cast; 
Well-knit  and  tall,  in  military  suit, 
But  with  a  face  so  much  unlike  her  mien ; 
And  what  Sordino  could  instantly  glean, 
It  had  a  strength,  but  not  of  thought  and  truth, 
But  rather  courage,  stemming  any  blast. 

Correctly  he  surmised,  this  very  man 

Was  Stella's  fiance;  and  Jealousy, 

That  "greeneyed  monster,"  held  him  by  the  throat, 

Or,  as  in  modern  parlance  "had  his  goat," 

A  phrase  suggestive  of  the  purity 

Of  English,  even  among  a  college  clan. 

The  jealousy  of  outraged  marriage  bonds, 

Real,  or  imagined  as  Othelo's, 

Oft  finds  expression  in  a  dark  revenge. 

The  faithless  spouse  is  treated  as  a  wench, 

The  vile  seducer  suffers  every  loss, 

Unless,  perchance,  he  with  his  prize  absconds. 

With  hapless  suitors  has  she  gentler  ways. 
When  pledgless  smiles  is  all  they  have  obtained. 
Though  none  may  fully  know  what  she  may  do, 
(For  even  of  such  full  many  ones  she  slew), 
But  in  this  case.  Sordino,  deeply  pained. 
She  led  about  as  in  a  dreamy  haze. 


66  The  Lost  Chimes 

He  wandered  on  the  banks  of  wimpHng  Thames, 
And  on  the  anchored  ships  did  idly  stare, 
But  had  no  mind  for  all  the  life  and  mirth 
Beneath  the  languid  sails  upon  the  firth, 
Since  nought  he  saw  but  that  one  happy  pair, 
And  but  two  eyes,  more  glorious  than  gems. 

With  night's  approach  his  feelings  took  the  hue 
Of  creeping  shadows  and  the  purple  dark. 
And  sadness  grew  to  an  oppressive  load, — 
Then  Jealousy  to  anger  did  him  goad. 
And  to  its  fouler  plots  he  once  did  hark. 
Which  with  a  frenzy  did  his  blood  imbue. 

Then  came  the  music  of  St.  Mary's  bell, 

Commingling  with  St.  Paul's  of  deeper  tongue. 

And  oped  his  prison  of  unhappiness. 

They  had  a  solace  that  could  calm  and  bless, 

And  when  the  last  vibrating  note  was  rung. 

He  homeward  turned,  and  whispered:  "All  is  well." 

XXXI 

As  a  philosopher  Sordino  tried 
To  make  himself  believe  that  all  was  well, 
Howe'er  something  opposed  his  wise  decree, — 
He  sought  to  sup,  but  found  each  dish  to  be 
Devoid  of  savor  both  in  taste  and  smell. 
His  spleen  the  head's  philosophy  defied. 

He  sought  his  couch  and  courted  gentle  sleep. 
And  stoically  scorned  his  love-affair. 
But  Somnus  was  so  far  away,  unheeding. 
And  thoughts  in  solitude  were  slowly  feeding 


The  Lost  Chimes  67 

Upon  his  heart,  like  lions  in  their  lair, 
Instead  of  rest,  his  misery  grew  deep. 

The  clock  struck  ten,  he  rose  and  left  his  room ; 
The  bar  was  lively,  and  he  chose  its  folly ; 
There  was  the  sailor,  garrulous  and  drunk. 
In  company  with  one,  a  quondam  monk. 
From  Henry's  reign,  when  monks,  unduly  jolly, 
Were  driven  from  pretended  cloister-gloom. 

But  if  the  ruby  brightness  of  his  nose 

Was  then  acquired,  or  in  his  homeless  state, 

Is  not  for  me  to  say,  but  it  surpassed 

Even  his  who  years  had  sailed  before  the  mast. 

And  with  the  aid  of  gin  and  stormy  fate 

Had  made  it  blossom  like  an  Irish  rose. 

These  two  from  spheres  so  far  apart  had  met 
Across  a  stoop  of  ale,  which  like  the  river 
Of  classic  eld  can  quench  all  mundane  sorrow. 
Make  men  forgetful  of  the  past  and  morrow, 
Upon  whose  bosom  dreams  all  sunlit  quiver, 
Until  it  empties  in  a  sea  of  jet. 

Upon  the  sailor's  quick  discovery 

Of  Count  Sordino's  presence,  he  approached 

Him  with  a  courtsy  very  risible 

And  whispered  that  he  had  something  to  tell, 

Which  on  their  precious  secret  did  encroach. 

And  asked  him,  come  aside  from  company. 

Sordino  followed  with  a  sense  of  fear. 
That  it  was  money  which  the  rogue  was  after. 
And  cared  but  little  for  his  muddled  talk; 
Soon  on  the  dark,  deserted  garden-walk 


68  The  Lost  Chimes 

They  stood,  where  faint  the  hum  and  laughter 
Of  drinking  men,  fell  on  the  listening  ear. 

In  broken  sentences,  and  low,  the  croon 

Confided  to  Sordino  something  strange : 

He  had  that  very  eve  beheld  the  man. 

Who  brought  the  bells  from  France  to  old  Ireland, 

First  on  the  street,  then  on  a  garden-bench, 

Embracing  a  young  lady,  'neath  the  moon. 

Moreover,  he  had  chanced  to  meet  a  fellow. 
Who  used  to  wear  the  cowl,  in  whilom  days, 
But  had  doffed  cloth  and  everything  religious. 
And  though  his  story  was  somewhat  ambiguous. 
He  claims  to  know  the  chimes,  and  doth  much  praise 
Their  wondrous  tones  as  very  clear  and  mellow. 

This  tale  engrossed  Sordino's  mind  intensely ; 
They  entered,  sought  the  monk,  who  half  asleep 
Sat  by  a  table  all  alone;  the  two 
Aroused  him  with  a  drink  of  better  brew. 
Now  with  the  sailor  he  the  best  did  reap 
From  the  Count's  interest  and  liberality. 

Sordino  made  agreement  with  these  men 
To  go  with  him  to  Ireland,  even  that  week. 
Which  they  did  promise  for  a  goodly  hire, — 
For  both  declared,  they  knew  the  very  spire, 
Around  whose  golden  cross  his  chimes  did  seek 
Their  flight  up  to  the  list'ning  choirs  of  heaven. 

XXXII 

O,  god  of  gold,  whose  universal  sway 


The  Lost  Chimes  69 

Is  not  the  underworld,  on  the  Plutonic  shore, 
And  hideous,  like  that  of  Spencer's  dream. 
But  on  our  terra's  face,  bright  with  the  gleam 
Of  mid-day  sun,  thy  power  has  ever  more 
Commanded  human  nature  to  obey! 

Thou  sittest  not  in  gloomy  woods  and  caves, 

A  loathsome  creature  with  the  hoarded  pelf. 

But  in  the  palace  and  the  mansion  bright, 

In  marble  temples  large  and  fair,  bedight, 

A  princely  being,  though  controlled  by  Self, 

To  whom  most  men  submit  themselves  as  slaves. 

The  beautiful,  the  learned,  and  the  strong 
Are  vying  with  the  baser  mass  to  serve 
Thee  ardently,  that  favor  they  may  find. 
They  offer  beauty,  skill  of  hand  and  mind. 
And  ceaseless  toil,  until  the  vital  nerve 
Of  life  is  gone,  the  source  of  joy  and  song. 

Some  barter  soul  and  body  for  the  gold. 
And  bear  but  semblance  to  the  f  reeborn  man ; 
The  food  is  rich,  the  wine  is  sparkling  red, 
What  matter  then,  if  soul  and  heart  are  dead ; — 
But  in  the  darkness  stand  the  masses  wan. 
And  homeless  children  shiver  in  the  cold. 

Thou  rulest  kings  and  statesmen  in  their  places. 
Thou  makest  war,  and  causest  it  to  cease. 
Thou  art  the  world's  supremest  autocrat. 
And  e'en  our  land  is  bending  on  the  mat 
Before  thy  power's  terrible  increase. 
Which  even  the  shallow  lawgiver  amazes. 


70  The  Lost  Chimes 

It  is  not  lavish  gifts  alone  that  bind, 

But  ev'n  the  droppings  of  the  shining  ore, 

Thus  here,  the  tips,  Sordino  gave  the  salt, 

Enthralled  him  to  a  virtue  or  a  fault, — 

So  in  a  whisper,  recklessly  he  swore: 

"I'll  take  that  coward  and  knock  out  his  wind!" 

Just  then  Sordino's  foe  was  entering 

The  bar-room  with  a  smile  of  exultation; — 

The  salt  arose  and  held  him  by  the  arm, 

The  soldier  looked  at  him  with  small  alarm, 

Or  rather  with  a  frown  of  irritation, 

And  sought  the  drunken  sailor  from  him  fling, — 

Who  brawled  aloud:     **Thou  Judas  'Scarioth, 
Who  would  again  for  thirty  shillings  sell 
Our  holy  Mary's  son,  look  on  my  face 
As  one  who  helped  thee  in  thy  wicked  ways. 
To  make  a  fortune  on  a  stolen  bell, 
Inscribed  with  glory  to  Lord  Zebaoth!" 

"I  knew  not  better  then,  but  now  I  do, — 
Those  bells,  we  freighted,  were  but  stolen  good, 
And  thou  the  thief,  enriched  by  robbing  God, — 
Thou  thinkest,  all  are  resting  'neath  the  sod, 
Who  knew  their  tale,  but  by  the  holy  Rood, 
There  is  one  yet  alive  who'll  make  thee  rue!" 

At  which  the  soldier  grasped  his  sword  to  fight ; 
The  sailor  laughed:  "Strik'st  thou  the  weaponless?" 
He  fell  upon  the  floor,  stabbed  in  the  breast. 
Then  rose  Sordino  and  to  all  confest: 
"I  am  the  man  behind  this  sorry  mess, 
But  will  take  pains  to  settle  it  aright." 


The  Lost  Chimes  71 

He  drew  his  sword  and  challenging  his  rival, 
They  bore  upon  each  other  with  a  fury, 
Which  in  Sordino  reached  a  double  strength, 
He  felt  that  fate  had  brought  him  this,  at  length. 
Not  even  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury, 
Could  stop  him  now  from  being  the  survival. 

The  parries  of  the  combatants  revealed 

Their  mastery  in  fencing,  and  it  seemed 

A  doubtful  issue  who  should  win  the  fray. 

When  suddenly  besides  the  sailor  lay 

The  soldier  with  a  gash,  from  which  there  streamed 

A  flood  of  life,  the  young  man's  doom  was  sealed. 

That  night  the  sailor  and  the  soldier  perished; 
Sordino  and  his  page  set  out  on  flight; 
But  Stella  and  her  father  mourned  the  loss 
Of  one  whom  they  thought  gold,  but  was  mere 

dross, — 
A  fortune-soldier  with  no  sense  of  right. 
Who  nought  but  selfish  aims  had  ever  cherished. 

A  double  life  may  win  the  noblest  heart 
By  hiding  foulness  neath  pretended  good. 
Until  the  judgment-day  reveals  the  truth. 
And  to  the  innocent  the  crushing  ruth, 
When  he,  that  trusted  was,  is  understood. 
And  all  dissemblings  from  his  life  depart. 

xxxni 

The  foot  is  fleet  when  conscience  spurs  it  on. 
And  fear  of  death  is  calling  in  one's  trail, 
Then  lonely  country  roads  and  midnight  dark 
Seem  better  than  the  torch-illumined  park. 


72  The  Lost  Chimes 

Where  smiling  faces  even  a  stranger  hail 
On  gala-nights  in  merry  old  London. 

And  to  possess  a  trusted  friend,  in  flight, 
Who  knows  the  road  and  place  of  safe  retreat. 
Is  more  than  thousand  when  all  things  are  well, 
His  whispered  counsel  more  than  when  they  yell 
Their  loud  approval  in  the  hour  of  heat. 
While  wine  is  flowing,  on  a  banquet  night. 

The  boy  did  follow  him,  and  strange  to  tell, 
The  monk  had  offered  him  his  services, 
And  led  the  way,  for  much  he  traversed  had 
The  country  near  and  far.    Sordino,  glad 
To  grasp  this  straw  of  help  in  his  distress. 
Did  follow  him  through  lane  and  murky  dell. 

Amid  its  trees  a  hermit's  hut  did  stand. 
Upon  whose  door  the  monk  three  times  did  knock ; 
"Who's  there?"  a  voice  did  clearly  ask  within, 
The    monk    replied:    "Thy    well-known    brother 

Quinn;" 
The  door  did  ope,  a  man  in  cloister-frock 
Appeared  with  light  and  crucifix  in  hand. 

"Grant  to  us  all  a  shelter  over  night. 
True  sons  of  Holy  Church,  though  fugitives. 
Not  without  recompense  shall  be  thy  care. 
For  though  we  nothing  in  our  hands  do  bear. 
This  gentleman  no  favors  e'er  receives, 
Without  a  thanks  which  lingers  with  delight." 

"I  do  not  covet  payment  for  a  favor," 
The  hermit  answered,  "hospitality 


The  Lost  Chimes  73 

Is  but  a  duty  upon  all  enjoined, 

And  deeds  of  kindness  into  lucre  coined 

Cannot  in  heaven  as  holy  treasures  be 

Stored  up,  since  of  man's  selfishness  they  savor." 

"But  I  would  know  who  comes  to  hermit's  cot, 
With  fear  upon  his  face  and  hard  of  breath." 
To  which  the  monk  replied :  "A  man  of  rank 
From  that  most  classic  land,  where  Dante  drank 
From  the  clear  fountain  which  o'ercometh  death, 
Gives  hope  to  hearts  whose  is  the  exile's  lot." 

"As  'neath  the  temple  in  Jerusalem 
A  fountain  issued  forth  all  sweet  and  clear. 
So  doth  from  mother-church  a  well-spring  flow, 
And  all  who  drink  thereof  must  feel  the  glow 
Of  life  within  which  makes  them  see  and  hear 
The  joy  that  trembles  round  Christ's  diadem.'* 

"His  quest  is  tp  regain  some  precious  bells, 
That  blessed  his  land,  to  whom  his  soul  is  wed, — 
And  on  his  painful  journey  he  has  found 
The   man   who    stole    them,    brought   him    to    the 

ground ; 
From  dire  avengers  he  has  justly  fled. 
Protect  him  thou,  lest  him  some  villain  quell." 

The  hermit  promised  him  his  hut's  protection, 
And  of  a  secret  cave  beneath  a  tree. 
Meanwhile  the  monk  and  page  should  preparation 
Make  for  departure  to  that  stalwart  nation, 
Whose  melodies,  one  with  its  history. 
Have  from  its  sacred  lore  the  true  inflection. 


74  The  Lost  Chimes 

XXXIV 

With  first  grey  dawn  of  day  the  hermit  rose 
To  pray,  as  was  his  custom  every  morn, 
And  with  him  knelt  Sordino,  in  contrition, 
For  through  the  hours  of  night  the  awful  vision 
Of  wanton  murder  to  his  mind  was  borne, 
And  robbed  him  of  all  rest  and  soul-repose. 

And  to  the  holy  man  he  did  confess. 

And  begged  his  absolution,  which  was  granted, 

But  still  the  deed  so  weighed  upon  his  heart, 

That  when  his  two  companions  did  depart, 

He  fain  would  have  his  own  death-dirges  chanted, 

To  make  an  end  of  harrowing  distress. 

Such  is  the  soul,  that  once  attuned  to  peace, 

Must  pass  through  Becca's  vale  of  dark  remorse, 

In  whom  the  joy  of  heav'n  and  grief  of  hell 

Are  seeking  one  another  to  expel; 

Well  then  if  the  afflicted  take  recourse 

To  Him  who  calms  the  storm  and  gives  surcease. 

The  ruing  of  our  sins,  the  souFs  repentance. 

The  coming  to  oneself,  and  meeting  God, 

Is,  after  all,  the  only  way  to  rest. 

All  else  is  but  a  vain  and  foolish  quest, 

A  hiding  from  the  terror  of  His  rod, 

A  coward's  quailing  for  a  righteous  sentence. 

For  it  is  then,  and  only  then,  the  Father 
Can  meet  His  child,  such  as  it  left  His  home, 
Bestow  the  kiss  of  pardon  and  the  love 


The  Lost  Chimes  75 

Of  ring  and  raiment  from  His  treasure  trove, 
And  bid  him  to  the  Palace  with  Him  come, 
There  with  the  tranquil  spirits  ever  gather. 

Sordino  now,  like  Israel  of  old, 

Passed  through  the  inner  struggle  with  the  Lord, 

Until  the  morning  of  his  soul  appeared, 

And  with  the  light  of  victory  him  cheered. 

The  brook  of  bitter  weeping  he  did  ford. 

And  found  beyond  the  comfort  of  God's  fold. 

XXXV 

Deem  it  not  strange  that  men  of  deeper  thought, 
Retired  to  solitudes  of  woods  and  mountains, 
Where,  by  a  life  of  pray'r  and  contemplation, 
They  strove  to  find  the  soul's  complete  salvation. 
And  drink  of  heaven's  unpolluted   fountains. 
And  comprehend  what  God  for  man  hath  wrought. 

The  solitude,  in  which  the  hermit  dwelt. 
Was  deep  and  undisturbed  by  human  strife, 
No  sound  was  heard  but  nature's  matchless  tones. 
Its  song,  the  cry,  the  sigh,  the  wandering  moans, 
Which  lift  the  poet's  vision  to  a  life. 
That  has  no  language,  but  alone  is  felt. 

Such  quiet  is  a  balm  for  wretched  minds, 
A  cooling  water  to  the  soul  athirst ; 
Sordino  drank  it  like  the  cup  of  grace. 
In  which  you  see  the  Saviour's  crowned  face, 
God  spoke  to  him,  not  as  to  Cain  accurst. 
But  as  a  father,  in  the  whispering  winds. 


76  The  Lost  Chimes 

XXXVI 

Towards  eve,  that  day,  arrived  his  faithful  aid, 
Who  after  stealthy  search  had  found  a  ship 
For  Ireland  bound,  to  sail  that  very  night ; 
And  in  the  dark,  before  the  moon  rose  bright. 
They  might  into  its  hiding  safely  slip, — 
The  captain  willing  to  be  doubly  paid. 

So,  as  the  dusk  grew  on,  the  kindly  dusk, — 
Which  like  a  mother's  weeping  love  embraces 
Her  guilty  child,  to  pardon,  shield  and  hide. 
Close  to  her  breast,  where  nothing  shall  betide 
Him  but  the  shelter  from  the  cruel  faces 
Of  an  avenging  world, — he  rose  to  busk 

With  his  companions,  yet,  ere  he  took  leave. 
He  prayed  the  hermit's  blessing  on  his  soul. 
Then  put  a  golden  pound  within  his  palms. 
The  hermit  thanked  him  for  his  gen'rous  alms. 
Then  blessed  him  with  the  cross,  yea,  blessed  them 

all. 
And  bid  them  fare  in  hope,  and  not  to  grieve. 

Then  they  departed  to  a  little  boat, 

Hid  in  a  wooded  nook  upon  the  river. 

And  in  the  darkness  for  the  ship  set  out. 

And  Quinn,  who  plied  the  oars,  did  make  the  route. 

Without  a  blunder,  to  the  "Guadalquiver," — 

As  proud  a  galleon  as  was  afloat. 

XXXVII 

When  man  has  lost  the  moorings  of  his  home, 
And  on  the  sea  of  life  is  tossed  about. 


The  Lost  Chimes  77 

Bereft  of  childhood's  anchorage  of  heart, 
Nor  wife,  nor  child  have  in  his  life  a  part, 
Then  cares  he  little  for  the  farewell  shout, 
And  sometimes  little  whither  he  may  roam. 

Not  so  with  children,  when  the  evening-star, 

In  the  cerulean,  like  mother-eye, 

Sends  forth  its  heavenly  gleam  of  love  and  peace, — 

The  longing  for  the  home  doth  then  increase, 

And  from  the  soul  goes  up  a  bitter  cry 

To  be  with  those  so  dear,  but  so  afar. 

Sordino's  page  stood  at  the  railing,  as 
The  ship  bore  down  the  Thames,  that  star-lit  night. 
And  none  did  mark  the  tears  that  trickled  fast. 
And  none  did  see  the  glances  which  he  cast 
Towards  the  home  which  was  his  soul's  delight, 
While  farther,  farther  from  it  he  did  pass. 

Sordino  missed  him,  sitting  in  the  hold. 

And  asked  his  new-found  friend  to  bring  him  down, 

And  as  he  came  and  stood  in  the  dim  glow 

Of  candle-light,  at  once  with  pain  he  saw 

The  redness  of  his  eyes,  so  large  and  brown. 

And  felt  his  hands,  that  they  were  strangely  cold. 

And  he  did  put  his  arm  around  his  neck, 
And  lowly  spoke  with  tenderness  and  cheer, 
That  he  should  see  again  the  home  he  loved, 
And  him  with  goodly  promises  endowed 
Of  favors  that  would  make  each  coming  year 
As  carefree  as  the  sailors  on  the  deck. 


78  The  Lost  Chimes 

XXXVIII 

The  sea  attracts  the  soul  that  deeply  yearns 
For  freedom  and  adventure,  like  the  iron 
Which  is  by  magnet  drawn ;  and  so  it  be, 
That  'mongst  the  cruder  natures  one  may  see 
The  dreamer's  eye  of  Masefield  or  a  Byron, 
Or  wit  and  humor  of  a  Robert  Burns. 

And  sailors  love  to  sing,  or  tell  a  tale. 
Songs  set  to  music  by  the  wave  and  wind. 
And  yarns  with  tang  and  laughter  of  the  deep, 
And  on  a  day  when  all  things  seem  asleep 
In  golden  calm,  you  best  may  find 
The  squatting  crew  itself  of  these  avail. 

On  such  a  day  a  sailor-lad  did  sing 

A  little  lay  which  to  Sordino 's  page 

Had  spirit-flight,  as  never  he  had  known, 

It  was  to  him  the  lifting  of  a  dawn 

From  night's  and  sorrow's  dark  and  fearful  cage, 

The  skylark's  rise  and  soar  on  raptured  wing. 

"Adieu,  my  native  land,  adieu, 

I  leave  thee  for  a  while, 

As  fade  thy  cliffs  amid  the  blue. 

And  trembling  of  thy  smile ! 

I  sing  my  parting  song  with  tears. 

But  not  as  cravens  do. 

Thy  love  casts  out  the  coward's  fears 

And  leaves  a  courage  true." 

"For  England's  sons  did  ever  find 
Their  strength  in  love  of  thee, 


The  Lost  Chimes  79 

Thy  name,  a  lode-star  to  their  mind, 
Guides  o'er  the  stormy  sea ; 
They  breathe  it  as  the  lover  does 
Her's  whom  he  most  adores; 
And  where  the  English  standard  goes 
Her  name  lights  up  the  shores." 

"There  is  a  land  far  in  the  west, 
Bright  with  the  sun-set's  glow, 
Arising  from  the  billow's  crest, 
With  mountain-peaks  of  snow. 
With  palms  and  roses  in  the  vales, 
And  fountain-gleams  among, 
And  rich  as  any  fairy-tale, 
In  gold  and  fruit  and  song." 

"And  men  have  sailed  the  weary  leagues 

To  find  this  wondrous  realm, 

Have  spurned  the  danger  and  fatigues, 

And  waves  that  overwhelm, 

To  reach  that  land,  but  none  returned 

To  England  from  his  quest. 

Unless  his  heart  within  him  burned 

With  thanks  for  what  is  best." 

"For  English  isles  is  Paradise 

To  every  native  child. 

Since  things  more  precious  he  doth  price 

Than  riches  of  the  wild. 

The  gold  of  love  is  more  than  all, 

And  faith  more  rare  than  gems, 

He  heeds  not  the  alluring  call 

And  glittering  diadems." 


8o  The  Lost  Chimes 

"He  loves  his  land,  he  loves  his  God, 

Be  riches  what  they  may, 

The  bleeding  Christ  upon  the  rood 

Protects  him  on  his  way, 

And  meets  he  luck,  as  it  may  hap 

To  any  sailor  boy, 

He  brings  it  to  his  mother's  lap. 

Her  thanks,  his  greatest  joy." 

"Adieu,  adieu,  my  native  land, 

Adieu,  my  father's  home. 

Adieu  my  lass,  O,  may  thy  hand 

Greet  me  when  back  I  come! 

For  sailor's  heart,  when  outward  bound, 

Is  filled  with  sorrow's  pain. 

But  hope  lies  glimm'ring  on  the  sound — 

Of  coming  home  again." 

XXXIX 

The  song  was  ended,  and  the  crew's  applause 

Did  please  the  lad,  who  sang  it  to  his  lute. — 

The  midshipman  then  essayed  to  relate 

A  story  with  a  mystery  and  fate. 

Of  queen  in  English  castle,  and  a  brute 

Whom  she  did  love,  her  absent,  heartless  spouse. 

But  while  he  spake,  the  captain  did  appear, 
(Unfinished  hung  the  story  on  the  lips), 
A  Spaniard  would  not  let  such  story  pass. 
Since  holy  was  his  monarch,  though  an  ass; 
Castilian,  yea,  to  the  finger-tips, 
Who  for  his  God  and  king  had  equal  fear. 


The  Lost  Chimes  8 1 

But  all  his  crew  was  English  and  did  pity, 

Though  not  from  love,  their  queen  of  grief  and  rage. 

The  most  unfortunate  on  any  throne, 

Who  languished  in  her  palace  sad  and  lone, 

A  zealot  for  her  faith,  who  dared  to  wage 

A  final  fight  for  the  Eternal  City. 

'Her  love  for  Philip  was  a  tragedy. 
Of  whom  the  people  spake  and  lent  it  hue 
Of  fateful  romance  and  a  mystery; 
Yea,  in  the  night  strange  phantoms  men  did  see 
Of  things  the  superstitious  counted  true, 
But  round  it  all  clung  native  sympathy. 

The  captain  becked  Sordino  to  his  side, 
And  spoke  in  accents,  foreign  to  his  men, 
On  whom  a  silence  fell  deep  as  the  sea's. 
When,  lo!  there  rose  a  curling  little  breeze, 
And  then  another  stronger  than  its  friend. 
Who  called  on  Neptune's  horses  for  a  ride. 

The  captain  bid  the  men  to  tend  the  sails, 
And  quickly  did  each  sailor  now  respond ; 
The  sheets  were  spread  before  the  rising  wind. 
And  swiftly  did  they  leave  the  coast  behind, 
To  reach  the  vast  and  sunlit  mere  beyond, 
Where  ocean  billows  surge  with  piercing  wails. 

XL 

Sordino *s  mind  sank  into  gloomy  night. 
As  time  grew  heavy  with  a  voyage  long; 
He  brooded  on  the  past,  and  as  he  did, 


82  The  Lost  Chimes 

It  seemed  that  shadows  all  its  sunshine  hid; 
And  sickness,  too,  did  make  the  man,  once  strong, 
Feel  aged,  worthless,  and  in  awful  plight. 

The  story  by  the  midshipman  did  linger 

Upon  his  heart,  increasing  spectral-like, 

Awaking  sympathy,  for  he  did  see 

In  Mary's  life  the  gathered  misery 

Of  many  storms  which  'gainst  her  soul  did  strike, 

And  on  a  dark  and  hopeless  deep  did  bring  her. 

The  greatest  souls  must  bear  the  greatest  pain, 

And  sometimes  sweetness  turns  to  bitterness. 

And  they  who  for  the  heights  have  been  appointed. 

And  by  the  gods  or  fates  have  been  anointed. 

Must  know  the  "Welt-smertz"  of  the  vintage  press. 

And  tread  it  all  alone,  may  be  in  vain. 

Thus  did  he  meditate,  and  pleasure  found 
In  philosophic  musings,  day  by  day; 
But  this  was  unknown  to  the  hardy  crew, 
Who  melancholy  with  their  laughter  slew, 
They  liked  him  not,  and  wished  him  out  of  way, — 
Well  that  he  had  the  captain  to  him  bound. 

Alas,  to  him  the  Chimes  of  life  were  lost! 
And  that  they  ever  rang  seemed  but  a  dream ; 
The  boist'rous  elements  of  sea  and  air 
Enveloped  him,  but  little  did  he  care, 
Since  death  itself  a  friend  to  him  did  seem, — 
Of  all  things  weary,  sick  and  tempest-tost. 

But  in  such  hours,  whene'er  the  boy  drew  near. 
Whom  he  did  love,  a  light  shone  in  his  eyes, 


The  Lost  Chimes  83 

And  he  did  speak  to  him  so  tenderly 

As  any  parent,  which  did  set  him  free 

From  painful  broodings  and  the  low'ring  skies, 

And  mid  the  deepest  darkness  brought  him  cheer. 

XLI 

'Tis  not  our  aim  to  tell  of  voyage  long, 
Of  storms  and  struggles  on  the  wintry  seas. 
Of  harbourage  and  waiting  in  its  course. 
Mid  sheltered  inlets  upon  Ireland's  shores, 
Though  full  of  hardship,  yet  it  would  not  please, 
And  we  must  draw  to  close  our  lengthy  song. 

But  I  have  seen  full  many  a  ship  depart, 
Receding  into  dimness  gray  and  cold, 
Then  slip  away,  lost  in  a  mighty  void ; — 
And  in  my  musings  I  have  tugged  and  toyed 
With  memories  of  friends,  or  what  they  told. 
In  words  that  strayed  from  an  unguarded  heart. 

For  "wise  words"  are,  sometimes,  but  foolish  mumb- 
ling, 
And  critic's  arrogance  a  dark  conceit, 
While  silence  often  has  the  truest  depth; 
But  when  the  child,  which  in  thy  bosom  slept. 
Awakes  to  speak,  a  morning  light  doth  greet 
The  restless  trav'ler  in  his  painful  stumbling. 

For  there  are  seas,  and  many  a  distant  shore, 
And  life  is  but  a  journey  and  a  fight, 
Amid  the  mighty  elements  at  war ; — 
But  by-and-by  the  pilgrimage  is  o'er, 
And  when  the  peaceful  harbor  is  in  sight, 


&!■  The  Lost  Chimes 


Love's  word  alone  can  ope  the  Palace-door. 

XUI 

Upon  an  April  morn  the  ship  emerged 

From  fitful  seas  into  the  placid  pool 

Of  Limerick.    The  day  was  clear  and  calm, 

And  nature  drew  the  breath  of  spring,  its  balm 

Was  tempering  the  breezes,  somewhat  cool, 

From  western  realms,  where  ocean-billows  surged. 

The  woods  and  lanes  stood  draped  in  flimsy  veil, 

Of  hues  most  delicate ;  a  purple  shade 

Uniting  with  a  tender  touch  of  green, 

While  here  and  there  a  golden  glint  was  seen 

Of  butter-cups  upon  the  sloping  glade. 

Or  round  the  ponds,  where  fleecy  clouds  did  sail. 

The  skylark,  lavishing  its  melody 

Upon  the  freedom  of  the  airy  height. 

Did  carol  from  the  lofty  blue  so  long. 

That  not  of  earth  but  heaven  seemed  its  song, 

An  Ariel  amid  the  dazzling  light, 

Who  thrilled  the  heart  of  man  with  ecstasy. 

Sordino  barkened  to  this  happy  flood 
Of  music,  and  he  saw  his  servant  boy 
Gaze  upward,  like  the  holy  men  that  day, 
When  Christ  ascended,  for  it  did  allay 
His  sorrows,  and  like  theirs,  restore  his  joy. 
Since  skylark  song  is  in  the  English  blood. 

For  have  not  Wordsworth  and  great  Shelley  proven 
That  none  it  stirs  just  like  the  British  heart, 


The  Lost  Chimes  85 

To  whom  the  lark  gave  immortality, 
When  it  inspired  them  with  its  poesy, 
And  made  their  odes  the  acme  of  their  art, 
Creations  from  Apollo's  texture  woven? 

Sordino's  mind,  however,  at  that  hour, 
Lacked  the  repose  which  was  on  land  and  sea; 
And  without  mood  no  music  doth  arrest, — - 
For  by  an  eagerness  he  was  possest, 
To  know  in  truth  if  this  the  shore  might  be, 
Which  held  his  treasure  in  Cathedral  tower. 

The  fire  of  his  Italian  blood  awoke. 
Though  he  had  aged  so  much  upon  this  journey, 
He  longed  to  leave  the  ship,  and  pass  along 
The  river,  which  was  famous  made  in  song. 
By  the  immortal  Moore,  and  quaint  Mahoney, 
Whose  "Shannon  Bells"  remain  a  master-stroke. 

Sordino's  wish,  to  be  the  first  to  land, 

Was  granted,  and  a  boat  placed  to  his  service, 

Manned  by  two  sailors  and  the  monk  and  page. 

The  former  only  did  the  oars  engage ; 

Sordino,  in  the  stern,  sat  like  a  dervise, 

In  musings  deep,  with  head  posed  on  his  hand. 

No  finer  vista  could  itself  unfold 

Than  that  which  burst  upon  his  dreamy  eye, 

As  full  in  view  the  city  did  appear, 

A  sight  which  drew  from  weary  hearts  a  tear, — 

A  city  glimmering  twixt  sea  and  sky, 

With  citadels  and  shrines,  even  then,  so  old. 

The  sailors  left  off  rowing  and  gave  way 
To  dreaming  on  the  scene,  until  a  spell 


86  '   The  Lost  Chimes 

Possest  them  all,  and  silent  did  they  rest 
Upon  the  river's  calm,  translucent  breast, 
When  all  at  once  the  clear  tone  of  a  bell 
Came  floating  softly  o'er  the  tranquil  bay. 

And  then  a  hymn  of  praise  rose  up  to  heaven 

From  bells  whose  tongues  had  notes  beyond  compare, 

Sordino's  chimes — when  on  his  ears  they  fell. 

He  knew  such  happiness  which  none  can  tell. 

And  angel  hands  to  Paradise  did  bear 

The  soul  who  for  true  harmony  had  striven. 

As  riveted  he  sat  with  empty  stare, 
Even  when  the  soul  had  from  its  temple  fled ; 
The  boy  did  note  it  first  and  gave  a  cry. 
It  was  to  him  as  if  his  sire  did  die; 
The  monk  did  say  a  prayer  o'er  the  dead, 
And  bid  the  sailors  to  the  city  fare. 

They    buried  him  within  the  hallowed  pale 
Of  the  Cathedral,  that  the  Chimes  might  sound 
Their  daily  dirge  above  the  master's  grave. 
Who  for  their  music  life  and  fortune  gave. 
Who  with  their  mystery  his  fate  had  bound, 
A  lonely  pilgrim  through  a  gloomy  vale. 

His  sacrifice,  howe'er,  was  not  in  vain. 

And  not  amiss  his  oft  belittled  quest. 

His  poet's  mantle  fell  upon  the  lad. 

To  whom  his  substance  he  bequeathed  had, — 

A  singer  he  became,  among  the  best. 

With  cadence  of  the  Chimes  in  lyric  strain. 


The  Lost  Chimes  87 


And  through  his  faith  the  faithless  was  restored, 
The  quondam  monk  became  a  godly  priest, 
Who  humbly  made  the  message  of  the  bells, 
A  life  of  peace  where  discord  often  dwells, 
To  tell  of  this  strange  man  he  never  ceast, 
Since  he  his  name  and  memory  adored. 

And  on  the  Danube,  in  her  father's  hall. 
Sat  Stella,  sorrowing  her  youth  away. 
The  people  said,  it  was  for  her  dead  lover; 
But  none  did  know,  and  none  did  e'er  discover 
The  secret  of  her  heart,  until  one  day. 
Her  father  heard  her  on  Sordino  call. 


THE  SIBYL'S  PROPHECY 


THE  SIBYL'S  PROPHECY 

Amid  a  vale  in  Norway  stands  a  church, 

An  ancient  building,  on  historic  ground ; 

Its  massive  walls  are  white  like  newfall'n  snow, 

Its  lofty  spire  seems  golden  in  the  sun; 

Around  it  mighty  elm-trees  spread  their  boughs 

And  throw  their  shadows  on  the  moss-grown  graves. 

And  crumbling  monuments  of  centuries, 

Their  music  blending  with  the  jack-daw's  cry 

And  with  the  deep,  pure  tones  of  bells,  whose  sound 

Reecho  'mong  the  wooded  hills  and  dells. 

Awaking  fancies  of  the  Saga-age: 

Of  royal  bards  who  sang  before  their  king. 

That  early  morning  of  the  fatal  day, 

When  Olaf  'neath  his  standard  of  the  cross 

Fought  pagan  armies  from  those  sloping  heights. 

And  lost  his  cause !   The  altar  has  been  built 

Above  the  stone,  he  leaned  against,  while  flowed 

His  precious  life-blood  from  the  cruel  wounds; 

The  ground  was  consecrated  by  his  blood. 

And  when  the  people  understood,  and  bowed 

Before  the  Christ  whose  saint  they  slew,  they  built 

A  chapel  on  the  place  of  martyrdom. 

Which  in  succeeding  ages  was  enlarged. 

Until  a  worthy  monument  stood  forth. 

The  ravages  of  time  have  wrought  their  change. 

But  it  is  ne'ertheless  the  trysting  place 

Between  the  valley's  people  and  their  God, 

A  place  which  links  the  present  to  the  past — 

And  heaven's  gates  to  Norway's  history. 

******** 

On  parchment,  dim  with  age,  a  chronicle. 
Two  cycles  old,  was  found  within  a  chest, 

91 


92  The  Lost  Chimes 

Amid  the  iron-coffins  in  the  vaults 

Below  the  church,  which  learned  parsons  read, 

And  then  restored  it  to  its  resting-place. 

For  some  strange  reason  then  the  narrow  door 

Was  closed  up  with  a  solid  masonry ; 

But  on  the  people's  lips,  from  age  to  age. 

The  legend  of  that  chronicle  has  passed. 

And  I  relate  it  here  as  told  to  me. 

When  but  a  boy,  by  my  great  grandmother. — 

One  day,  the  legend  says,  the  parish  priest, 

A  young  and  pious  man,  came  to  the  church, 

To  read  the  mass  for  a  departed  friend, 

When  he  beheld  a  lonely  woman  stand 

Within  the  shadow  of  a  mountain-ash. 

Which  spread  its  crown  of  green  and  red  beside 

The  gate  which  led  into  the  sacred  place. 

Her  hair  was  black  as  night,  her  eyes  a  deep 

Of  melancholy  mystery  and  dreams; 

Her  chiselled  features  had  the  striking  charm 

Of  youthful  beauty  and  a  mind  mature; 

She  was  unlike  the  women  of  the  vale, 

A  stranger  whom  the  priest  had  never  met ; 

And  he  espied  her  with  a  sense  of  fear. 

Her  sable  garb  and  downcast  mien  betrayed 

A  state  of  grief,  wherefore  the  kindly  man, 

Led  by  a  heartfelt  sympathy,  did  ask 

What  great  bereavement  weighed  upon  her  soul, 

To  which  she  answered :  "Sir,  I  sorrow  not 

For  any  one  within  this  hallowed  ground. 

Nor  elsewhere  for  the  dead ;  but  for  this  church 

I  grieve,  when  I  behold  how  it  is  doomed 

To  dire  destruction" — here  she  paused  and  sighed. 

Now  he  surmised  she  was  the  prophetess, 


The  Sibyl's  Prophecy  93 

The  sibyl  whose  renown  had  come  to  him, 

And  therefore  asked  that  she  would  further  tell 

About  her  vision  of  the  things  to  be. 

"I  see  two  saplings,  of  the  mountain  ash, 

Grow  up,  one  on  each  side  of  this  thy  church, 

I  also  see  a  breach  made  in  the  wall. 

And  when  the  saplings  have  grown  up  to  meet — 

As  mighty  trees  above  the  chancel-roof. 

And  when  the  rent  shall  grow  sufficient  wide 

To  be  the  hiding  of  a  prayer  book. 

Then  shall  the  church  sink  down  and  be  no  more." 

Then  quote  the  priest,  with  frown  upon  his  face: 

"The  house  built  on  a  rock  can  never  sink." 

"But  what  is  built  on  sand  the  floods  destroy," 

The  sibyl  said,  and  quickly  went  away. 

******** 

Into  the  church  the  parson  passed,  and  knelt 

Before  the  altar  in  an  earnest  prayer. 

That  God  would  have  great  mercy  on  the  soul 

Of  his  departed  friend  whose  earthly  life 

Had  been  cut  off  in  a  most  tragic  way; 

His  widow  now  bestowing  on  the  church 

Rich  offerings — atonements  for  his  deeds 

Of  sinfulness — outweighing  charity; 

And  while  he  prayed,  he  seemed  to  hear  the  cry 

And  groaning  of  the  soul,  from  out  the  fire 

Of  purgatory;  supplications  strong 

Ascended  to  the  mercy-seat  of  God 

From  humble  altar-steps,  until  he  felt. 

The  soul  was  loosed  in  heaven  as  on  earth. 

Departing  from  the  church,  he  looked  about 

For  that  strange,  mournful  face ;  but  she  was  gone. 

Then  came  a  thought  to  him,  a  memory 


94  The  Lost  Chimes 

Of  something  which  the  baron  him  had  told : 

How  on  a  summer's  day,  while  on  a  hunt, 

He  met  a  maiden  in  a  forest  glen, 

A  slender  girl  of  beauty,  such  as  he 

Had  seldom  seen — of  Oriental  cast, 

Who  weeping  told  him  of  his  fate  most  dire, 

That  fire  should  him  consume,  a  prophesy 

So  terribly  fulfilled,  and  now,  perchance, 

The  very  same  had  prophesied  to  him ; 

This  thought  possessed  his  mind,  as  home  he  strode. 

With  dark  forbodings  of  impending  doom. 

It  was  a  Sunday,  in  the  month  of  June, 
A  morn  of  most  bewitching  summer-charms; 
The  air  was  charged  with  fragrance  of  the  trees, 
Of  blooming  cherry  trees,  and  glist'ning  birch, 
Of  mountain  ash  and  tow'ring  balsam  trees, 
Of  hazel-wood  and  prickly  juniper. 
Of  alder  trees  along  the  winding  brooks, 
Of  mountain  forest  of  the  pungent  pine ; 
Of  thousand  flowers  in  the  meads  and  vales. 
An  odor  sweet — unknown  to  tropic  clime. — 
Within  God's  acre  stood  the  nodding  rose 
In  checkered  sunlight,  neath  the  cypress  tree, 
And  greeted  every  breeze  that  wandered  by. 
Groups  of  the  peasant  folk  were  gathering 
About  the  graves,  in  silent  thoughtfulness, 
And  some  in  sorrow  round  the  recent  mounds; 
The  air  so  calm  and  mild  with  fragrance  filled. 
The  tolling  of  the  church  bells  deep  and  strong. 
Made  this  a  day  of  sweet  solemnity. 
Felt  by  the  aged  and  the  youth  alike ; 
And  while  they  lingered,  lo,  the  sibyl  came. 


The  SibyVs  Prophecy  95 

From  group  to  group  a  whisper  passed  with  awe: 

"It  is  the  sibyl!"  Slowly  gathering 

About  her,  fearing  what  she  might  pronounce, 

They  gazed  upon  her  pale  and  mournful  face. 

"All  is  but  vanity,  all  things  are  nought, 

All  flesh  is  grass,  which  flourisheth  a  while. 

Then  withers,  dies,  and  mingles  with  the  dust, — 

Like  leaves  upon  the  trees  which  now  are  green, 

And  full  of  juice,  but  in  the  autumn  turn 

All  sear  and  yellow,  falling  to  the  ground. 

Whirled  by  the  chilling  blast  into  a  heap, — 

And  thus  must  ye  return  to  dust  some  day, 

And  all  your  work  must  perish,  even  so ; 

Yea,  even  the  church  must  perish  on  that  day. 

When  crowns  of  mountain  ash  trees  meet  above 

The  chancel  roof,  and  when  the  wall  receives 

Within  its  rent  a  common  prayer  book. 

Then  shall  the  earth  engulf  it,  and  the  pride 

Of  generations  perish  in  the  deep." 

Thus  spake  the  sibyl,  and  the  fearful  crowd 

Displeasure  showed  by  mien  and  murmuring; 

One,  much  perturbed,  essayed  to  argue  thus: 

"Thy  words,  O  woman,  are  but  idle  talk ; 

This  church,  built  on  such  firm  and  rocky  ground, 

Can  never  sink,  such  prophecy  is  vain ;" 

To  which  she  answered  with  a  sigh  subdued : 

"I've  told  you  only  what  I've  heard  and  seen 

In  truest  vision  of  the  things  to  come." 

These  words  were  uttered  as  the  last  bell  rang 

Its  summons  to  the  Mass,  obeyed  at  once 

By  all  the  people,  leaving  her  alone ; 

And  while  they  prayed,  she  found  a  resting-place 

Within  the  cooling  shadow  of  the  church, 


96  The  Lost  Chimes 

And  listened  to  a  lark  that  soared  on  high, 
Against  the  blue  of  heaven's  temple-dome, 
And  to  the  chorus  'mongst  the  sighing  trees, 
But  most  of  all  did  note  the  jack-daws  cry, 
That  melancholy  bird  of  occult  hue; 
As  in  a  trance  she  listened  to  them  all, 
To  thousand  voices  of  a  summer's  day ; 
But  ere  the  Mass  w^as  ended  rose  and  went 
Along  a  forest  path  her  solitary  way. 

Then  after  many  years,  upon  a  morn 

In  early  autumn,  when  the  aspen  trees 

Were  turning  golden,  and  the  starlings  sang 

In  darkling  flocks  from  meadows  shorn  and  sear. 

The  pastor  took  his  much  accustomed  walk. 

For  he  did  love  to  be  alone  and  muse 

Upon  the  wondrous  scenes  around  his  home, 

And  feel  great  nature's  sweet  and  changing  moods. 

Although  the  years  had  turned  his  hair  to  grey. 

And  robbed  his  steps  of  elasticity. 

Still  was  his  spirit  quite  susceptible 

To  happiness,  but  more  to  sorrow's  touch, 

And  on  a  day  like  this  with  feelings  mixed. 

The  sadness  of  the  dying  summer  won. 

And  thoughts  of  life,  its  purpose  and  its  end 

Did  occupy  his  mind  as  he  did  meet 

The  sibyl,  by  a  certain  turn  of  road ; 

For  twenty  years  he  had  not  seen  her  face. 

And  it  did  startle  him  to  meet  her  now. 

She,  too,  had  changed,  and  silver  locks  adorned 

Her  noble  forehead,  but  her  eyes  were  keen 

And  piercing,  even  as  in  days  of  youth. 

And  as  she  stopped  to  speak  with  him,  he  felt 


The  Sibyl's  Prophecy  97 

Their  searching  glances  knew  his  very  soul. 
"Long  working-day  has  God  ordained  for  thee", 
She  said,  to  which  he  sadly  answered  thus: 
"My  life  seems  but  a  transitory  dream, 
And  all  its  efforts  profitless  and  vain." 
"When  thou  art  dust,  thy  prayer  shall  be  heard," 
She  said  a-smiling,  and  passed  on  her  way. 
He  too  moved  on,  while  pondering  her  words, — 
The  dark  enigma  of  the  prophetess. 

The  Sibyl's  prophecies  we  thus  have  heard, 

And  their  fulfilment  now  we  will  relate, 

Which  have  their  place  in  ages  afterwards. — 

The  priest  as  well  as  prophetess  were  gone, 

And  so  were  generations  after  them, 

Half  hidden  by  the  dread  oblivion; 

The  prophecy  forgotten; — but  a  few 

Had  heard  it  as  an  old  tradition  vague, 

A  fable  only,  to  which  none  gave  heed, 

Though  twain  ash  saplings  grew  from  year  to  year, 

And  saw  at  least  two  generations  pass. 

Before  their  branches  met  above  the  church; 

A  breach  also  was  creeping  from  the  ground 

Up  through  the  side-wall's  massive  masonry. 

Increasing  with  the  changes  of  the  years. 

Two  things  which  did  recall  the  sibyl's  lore. 

And  led  the  people  to  cut  down  the  trees, 

To  fill  the  rent  and  hide  it  from  man's  view. 

Again  they  felt  assured  that  all  was  well, 

But  from  the  roots  new  shoots  began  to  grow 

And  unmolested  through  full  many  years. 

******** 

For  ages  had  the  river  sung  its  song, 


98  The  Lost  Chimes 

A-blending  with  the  church  bells'  melody; 
May  be  it  was  the  charm  of  liquid  chimes, 
Which  drew  the  river  closer  year  by  year, 
But   almost   imperceptibly, 
Until  one  spring  it  overflowed  its  banks. 
And  in  a  rage,  fed  by  the  mountain-streams. 
Did  wear  away  the  distance  from  the  church. 
And  forced  its  course  up  to  the  church-yard  wall. 
A  gruesome  scene  it  wrought,  as  days  went  by; 
The  coffins  in  the  graves  began  to  show, 
And  bones  in  sepulchres  of  old  decay; 
Occasionally  came  a  musty  skull 
A-whirling  down  the  maelstrom  of  the  flood. 
And  now  and  then  a  crash  and  splash  was  heard, 
When  some  tall  monument  did  tumble  down, 
Its  name  and  praise  lost  in  the  seething  deep. 
For  nought  can  man  achieve  but  it  is  doomed, 
At  last,  to  ruin  and  oblivion. 
And  mighty  trees  were  undermined  and  sank 
With  loads  of  earth,  their  branches  'mid  the  stream. 
Like  outstreched  arms,  imploring  heav'n  for  help. 
The  people  also  lifted  hands  in  prayer. 
For  night  and  day  they  feared  the  dreadful  hour. 
When — as  it  seemed — the  church  must  be  destroyed. 
The  pastor  summoned  them  to  spend  a  day 
In  penitence  and  supplication  true. 
They  came  from  far  and  near  both  old  and  young. 
Yea,  even  the  sick  and  crippled  folk  were  brought, 
That  all  might  help  to  lift  one  prayer  to  heaven, 
A  common  prayer  from  their  humble  hearts, 
Through  him  who  knelt  upon  the  altar  stair, 
Whose  voice  had  notes  of  anguish  for  his  church. 
With  tears  a  penitential  psalm  was  sung. 


The  SibyVs  Prophecy  99 

On  bended  knee;  and  when  again  they  rose 
To  leave  the  place,  they  passed  with  downcast  heads 
Out  through  the  chancel  door,  beside  the  which 
The  old  time  rent  was  plainly  visible, 
And  where  again  the  mountain-ash  had  reached 
Above  the  roof,  and  met  another's  crown. 
With  fear  they  listened  to  the  water's  roar, 
(Now  only  hundred  cubits  from  the  church) 
And  to  the  moaning  of  the  chilly  wind. 
Which  bare  the  rainclouds  o'er  the  naked  fields. 

It  was  the  midnight  hour,  and  densely  dark, 

In  torrents  fell  the  rain,  the  thunder  rolled, 

And  lurid  lightning  gleamed  across  the  sky. 

Its  light  revealing  nature's  misery. 

And  one  lone  woman  groping  'mongst  the  graves. 

Who  sought  the  church  that  she  too  there  might 

pray, 
The  only  one  who  at  the  mid-day  mass 
Had  absent  been,  for  death  had  kept  her  home, — 
Her  husband  struggling  with  the  last  grim  foe. 
The  struggle  being  ended,  she  desired 
To  share  in  that  great  prayer  of  the  day. 
For  this  she  stemmed  the  terror  of  the  night 
And  spectral  fear  of  sepulchres  and  shrine; 
She  found  the  door  unlocked  and  opened  it, 
She  entered,  crossed  herself,  and  sought  a  pew, 
And  fervently  God's  mercy  did  implore. 
Then  something  strange  did  happen,  for  behold, 
The  church  became  with  dazzling  light  illumed. 
And  stranger  still,  a  crowd  of  people  streamed 
Through  every  door,  and  without  footfall  sound. 
A  congregation,  not  of  mundane  mien, 


lOO  The  Lost  Chimes 

But  glorious  in  countenance  and  dress, 

Whose  utter  silence  seemed  a  breath  of  praise. 

They  filled  the  seats,  and  by  the  woman  sat; 

But  to  her  touch  they  were  as  empty  space. 

Up  from  the  vaults  below  emerged  a  band  of  priests, 

Arrayed  as  in  the  days  when  each  did  serve 

Before  the  altar  of  this  selfsame  church; 

All  knelt;  but  one  ascended  to  the  Host, 

An  aged  man,  whose  picture  still  adorned 

The  gallery,  about  whose  name  there  clung 

The  legend  of  the  sibyl's  prophecy. 

He  led  them  in  a  supplication  strong, 

Both  for  the  living  and  the  many  dead, 

Whose  ashes  were  imperiled  by  the  flood. 

And  that  kind  heaven  would  spare  the  sacred  shrine. 

Now  Kyrie  Eleison  sang  the  flock. 

With  hands  outstretched  toward   burning  altar 

lights. 
While  all  the  ministers  exclaimed:     Amen! 
The  woman  felt  such  wondrous  happiness. 
She  thought  that  she  had  died  and  gone  to  heaven, 
Yea,  all  at  once  she  felt  assured  of  this. 
For  now  she  saw  her  husband,  and  near  him 
Two  little  ones,  departed  years  ago. 
She  ran  with  joy  to  clasp  them  in  her  arms, 
But  they  did  vanish  from  her  fond  embrace; 
Yea,  all  did  vanish,  even  the  heavenly  lights. 
And  she  stood  there  alone  in  darkness  gross; 
The  silence,  too,  was  gone,  and  now  the  storm, 
Which  raged  in  all  its  fury,  took  its  place. 
A  distant  rumbling  noise  was  clearly  heard. 
And  then  a  terror-striking  thunder-crash ; 
The  church  did  tremble  in  its  very  depths; 


The  Sibyl's  Prophecy  lOi 

The  woman  thought  the  judgment-day  had  come; 

Her  strength  did  fail  her,  and  she  swooned  away. 

******** 

When  morning  o'er  the  mountain-tops  appeared, 

There  was  no  cloud  to  hinder  its  approach, 

And  all  creation  hailed  its  harbinger: 

The  first  faint  blushes  of  the  snowcapped  peak; 

The  raindrops  on  the  grass  and  upon  trees 

Soon  glittered  like  innumerable  pearls 

And  diamonds  on  the  bosom  of  the  earth. 

The  hidden  chorus  in  the  woods  began 

Its  songs  of  praise  for  the  returning  calm. 

In  every  home  the  frightened  people  'rose, 

And  hardly  dared  to  speak  what  most  they  feared, — 

The  church  destroyed — and  timidly  the  first 

Came  to  behold  the  ruins  of  the  night; 

But  when  they  saw  the  church  still  standing  there. 

They  ran  to  tell  the  people  and  the  priest. 

Who  came  with  joy  and  found  it  even  so. 

A  miracle,  it  seemed,  had  taken  place: 

The  raging  flood  had  wholly  disappeared. 

Its  empty  channel  bearing  witness  to 

How  great  and  terrible  had  been  its  pow'r. 

A  mighty  landslide  from  the  mountain  side 

Had  changed  its  course  back  to  an  ancient  bed, 

And  what  the  people  thought  the  dreadful  noise 

Of  their  beloved  sanctuary's  fall, 

Was  of  the  rushing,  rumbling  earthen  slide. 

How  great  was  now  their  joy,  when  they  perceived. 

That  God  had  heard  their  prayer  and  spared  His 

house ! 
With  praise  the  priest  across  the  threshold  stepped. 
And  many  followed  gladly  after  him. 


I02  The  Lost  Chimes 

To  join  in  common,  heartfelt  gratitude; 

But  suddenly  an  unexpected  scene 

Possessed  their  souls  and  filled  them  with  alarm: 

Before  the  altar  steps  a  woman  lay, 

Stark  dead,  it  seemed,  for  cold  and  pale  was  she, 

And  for  a  moment  all  did  hesitate 

To  touch  her,  thinking  she  was  surely  dead, — 

A  moment — only  this,  for  soon  the  priest 

Had  ascertained  that  life  was  not  extinct, 

And  altar-wine  helped  to  resuscitate; 

Now  slowly  she  emerged  from  deadly  swoon, 

And  gaining  consciousness  at  last  could  tell, 

Why  she  had  come  to  be  in  such  a  place. 

And  all  the  things  which  she  had  heard  and  seen. 

Of  phantom  congregation  and  its  mass. 

Of  priests  in  strange  array  before  the  Host. 

They  marvelled  greatly  at  her  narrative. 

When  said  the  pastor:     ''I  believe  forsooth 

The  spirits  of  the  dead  have  worshiped  here, 

Joined  in  the  prayers  of  their  living  friends, 

And  now  a  legend,  clustering  'round  the  name 

Of  him  whose  picture  you  have  pointed  out, 

Comes  to  my  mind,  the  sibyl's  prophecy: 

"When  thou  art  dead,  thy  prayer  shall  be  heard." 


ELEGIACS 


IN  MEMORIAM 

Judge  Gorham  Powers,  Died  April  15,  191 5- 

I 

The  flowers  lie  faded  on  his  mound, 
The  rose  and  lily  are  decayed; 
The  stam'ring  words  of  praise,  we  said, 
Did  vanish  almost  with  their  sound. 

The  throng  that  stood  around  his  bier, 
Is  scattered   in  accustomed  ways; 
And  now  and  then  a  neighbor  says: 
"This  was  the  saddest  of  the  year." 

Alas,  if  this  was  all  we  gave; 
Then  were  our  eulogies  a  shame; 
Unworthy  of  his  noble  name, 
A  mockery  around  his  grave. 

n 

A  month  has  passed,  and  April  showers 
Have  come  and  gone  upon  the  scene; 
The  fields  are  turning  deeper  green, 
And  leaves  are  growing  into  bowers. 

The  butter-cup  and  violet 
Appear  among  old  leaves  and  grass. 
The  Iris  stands  where  runnels  pass 
Into  the  larger   rivulet. 

105 


I06  The  Lost  Chimes 

The  meadow-lark  sings  in  the  fields, 
The  thrush  chants  in  the  willow-hedge, 
And  mid  the  marsh  and  from  the  sedge 
The  blackbirds  merry  music  peals. 

Thus  spring  has  conquered  winter's  gloom 
The  spring,  we  hoped  would  give  him  strength. 
Its  life  increase  his  journey's  length, 
Even  though  a  little  from  the  tomb. 

Ill 

But  in  our  heart  something  begins 
To  stir,  and  grow,  and  take  a  shape, 
It  flings  away  the  dismal  crape, 
And  o'er  our  lamentation  wins. 

It  is  a  flower  of  rarest  hue. 
Belonging  to  Eternity, — 
The  blossom  of  the  memory 
Of  what  in  him  was  good  and  true. 

With  this  we  will  his  grave  adorn, 
In  summer-sun  and  winter's  frost. 
Its  beauty  never  shall  be  lost. 
But  growing  brighter  with  each  morn. 

IV 

'Tis  evening,  and  the  clouds  hang  low, 
The  rain  has  fall'n  the  livelong  day. 
But  in  the  west  there  is  a  ray, 
A  gentle  gleam  of  evening-glow. 


Elegiacs  107 

Down  are  the  curtains  and  the  shades, 
Where  hearts  in  silence  weep  and  brood, 
They  nature's  sadness  may  exclude. 
But  also  that  one  gleam — which  fades. 

I  would  that  she  might  see  it  now, 
That  which  was  once  her  soul's  delight, 
That  it  could  meet  her  tearful  sight, 
From  o'er  the  verdant  hillock's  brow. 

It  would,  indeed,  be  rude  to  say, 

To  those  around  the  cheerless  hearth, 

"Arise,  and  smile,  let  grief  depart, 

Forget  the  clouds  which  gloomed  the  day." 

For  sorrow,  like  a  swollen  stream. 
Must  have  its  course,  or  break  its  bounds, 
And  oft  its  bitterness  redounds 
To  joy,  of  which  we  did  not  dream. 

But  that  sweet  sunset  seems  to  say, 
"He  was  a  good  man,  and  a  just," 
You  best  can  honor  him  by  trust 
In  Him  who  leads  us  day  by  day." 


The  maple  and  the  apple-trees. 
Around  his  home,  are  blossoming, 
There  is  the  hum  of  insects'  wings, 
The  droning  of  the  honey-bees. 

This  is  the  season,  he  loved  best, — 
To   labor   in  his  garden-plot, 


io8  The  Lost  Chimes 

To  prune  the  trees  that  flourished  not, — 
This  was  to  him  a  pleasant  rest. 

For  he  from  youth  was  nature's  child, 
He  loved  unfeigned  simplicity. 
He  found  it  in  the  field  and  tree, 
In  bird  and  beast,  the  tame  and  wild. 

He  found  it  in  the  "common"  folk. 
He  loved  them,  they  loved  him  again, 
He  was  the  poor  and  needy's  friend. 
His  feeding  tramps  became  a  joke. 

For  it  is  told,  both  near  and  far. 
How  he  the  tramp  led  to  his  board, 
To  all  the  best  it  could  afford. 
Then  offered  him  a  choice  cigar. 

Forgive  a  smile  amid  the  tear. 
The  simple  hearts  will  understand, 
And  bless  the  kind,  unstinted  hand. 
Which  gave  to  them  new  hope  and  cheer. 

The  apple  trees  send  out  their  sweet. 
The  purple  pomp  of  maples  droop. 
They  stand  alone,   they  stand   in  group. 
And  wait  in  vain  their  lord  to  greet. 

VI 

The  morning  lifts  its  saffron  veil. 
And   smiles  with   happiness   replete. 
With  Sabbath  peace  it  doth  us  greet, 
And  with  the  risen  Lord's  "All  Hail!" 


Elegiacs  109 


It  mingles  with  the  mellow  sound 
Of  church  bells  calling  man  to  prayer, 
It  falls  upon  the  altar-stair, 
Where  souls  disconsolate  are  found. 

No  more  along  the  aisles  shall  move 
His  stately  figure,  cloth  in  black. 
On  days  when  other  folk  seemed  slack 
In  the  expression  of  their  love. 

Not   to   repeat  a  senseless  creed, 
Did  he  the  house  of  God  attend. 
But  none  like  he  his  ear  did  lend, 
To  truth  of  heart  and  human  need. 

He  was  a  seeker  after  truth, 
Pursuing  it  on  flights  of  thought, 
His  mind  to  keenness  had  been  wrought 
By  constant  study,  even  from  youth. 

He  loved  the  truth  in  thought  and  life. 
He  hated  sham  and  cunning  cant, 
And  had  a  scornful  smile  for  rant. 
Whose  purpose  was  to  gender  strife. 

The  Protestant  and  Catholic 
He  judged   alike  from  human  view. 
Both  were  his  friends,  if  only  true. 
The  false  alone  a  heretic. 

No  honest  Faith  he  e'er  did  scorn, 
But  saw  the  human  heart  in  all. 
The  upward  reaching  of  the  soul, 
The  waiting  for  a  better  morn. 


I  lo  The  Lost  Chimes 

Though  he  with  Burns  did  sometimes  laugh 
While    reading    "Holy   Willie's    Prayer," 
Or  satires,  like  the  "Holy  Fair," 
Or  "Holy  Willie's  Epitah." 

For  when  we  cease  to  fear  and  dread 
The  phantoms  of  a  darker  age, 
We  read  them  like  a  comic  page, 
And  smile  to  think  that  they  are  dead. 

The  darkness  from  man's  faith  cast  out, 
And  truth  and  love  alone  its  good. 
Then  he  shall  know  that  brotherhood, 
God's  greatest  prophets  speak  about. 

Then  man  the  Father's  heart  shall  know. 
The  "larger  Hope"  and  nobler  meed, 
Then  shall  his  life  be  one  grand  creed. 
The  measure  of  what  he  doth  trow. 

Was  this  his  faith?     He  never  told. 
Except  in  modest  daily  deeds, 
He  said  no  prayers,  nor  counted  beads. 
Yet  was  he  one  of  God's  true  fold. 

vn 

There  moves  along  the  street  and  lane 
A  motley  crowd  of  old  and  young ; 
The   nation's  anthem  has  been  sung, 
A  homily  preached  at  the  fane. 

It  moves  along  to  sound  of  fife 
And  muffled  drum,  the  step  to  aid ; 


Elegiacs  in 

The  flag  is  to  the  breezes  laid, 

A  flag  which  bears  the  marks  of  strife. 

These  men  who  carried  it  on  high, 

Amid  the  battle's  great  array, 

But  feebly  follow  it  to-day 

To  where  their  fallen  comrads  lie. 

*'He  must  increase,  but  I  decrease," 
Thus  spake  the  prophet  long  ago, 
"Old  Glory"  has  been  strengthened  so, 
"The  boys  in  blue"  may  rest  in  peace. 

And  one  by  one  is  mustered  out, 
From  ranks  which  ever  thinner  grow, 
Soon  but  a  remnant  we  shall  know, 
A  remnant  in  the  North  and  South. 

So  let  us  plant  our  flag  and  flow'r 
Upon  their  grave,  in  Memory, — 
Of  what  they  were — what  we  should  be, 
In  this  the  larger,  newborn  hour. 

But  most  of  all,  let  us  be  kind 
To  these  who  linger  yet  a  while. 
Come,  walk  with  them  the  last  long  mile. 
And  carry  those  who  fall  behind! 

VIII 

He  was  a  member  of  this  post. 

Lieutenant  of  artillery. 

Great  Lincoln's  gift  for  bravery. 

Of  which  you  never  heard  him  boast. 


112  The  Lost  Chimes 

At  Cedar  Mountain  and  at  Reams, 
Antietam  and  the  Wilderness, 
Cold  Harbor,  with  its  vain  distress, 
And  Petersburg's  dark  bloody  streams, 

He  knew  the  brunt  of  bitter  fight, 
The  hardship  and  the  painful  wound. 
He  knew  the  cost  of  conquered  ground, 
The  price  of  freedom  and  of  right. 

He  knew,  indeed,  that  "war  is  hell," 
And  did  not  proudly  speak  of  it, 
Although  his  eyes  were  strangely  lit, 
When  campfire  stories  he  did  tell. 

But  peace  was  regnant  in  his  soul. 
He  dreamed  about  that  distant  day, 
When  man  shall  know  the  better  way. 
Of  peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  all. 

He  read  with  sorrow  of  the  war, 
Which  Europe's  mighty  nations  wage. 
To  him  it  seemed  an  insane  rage, 
Which  e'en  a  soldier  must  deplore. 

It  cast  a  shadow  o'er  his  mind 
To  think  that  progress  is  so  slow. 
That  highest  life  is  still  so  low 
Among  the  foremost  of  mankind. 

His  peace  increased,  as  strength  declined, 
The  world's  sad  plight  he  keenly  felt. 
And  human  hope  he  clearly  spelt, 
In  Peace  alone,  with  Truth  entwined. 


Elegiacs  113 

IX 

The  silver  clouds  move  lazily, 
Beneath  a  sky  so  high  and  blue, 
And  seem  to  touch  the  distant  view 
Of  our  mid-summer  scenery. 

They  are  like  dreams  of  other  days, 
Of  life  that  was  and  is  no  more, 
Except  upon  another  shore. 
Beyond  the  sun's  prismatic  rays. 

They  hang  above  the  peaceful  town, 
They  brood  above  the  courthouse  tower, 
Like  blessings  on  the  morning  hour. 
And  on  the  judgments  there  set  down. 

Beneath  the  lawyer's  able  brief, 
Beneath  the  arguments  set  forth. 
Beneath  the  rulings  of  the  court, 
There  is  a  silent,  manly  grief. 

The  thoughts  of  him,  who  for  so  long 
Did  hold  the  chair  within  this  hall, 
Leap  from  his  portrait  on  the  wall, 
To  men  whose  hearts  are  true  and  strong. 

It  seems  so  strange,  he  is  not  there, 
To  guide  them  with  his  light  of  law, 
Who  seldom  failed  the  right  to  know, 
Whose  judgments  were  both  just  and  fair. 

Whose  mind  cut  keenly  through  the  maze 
Of  subtlest  labyrinth  of  guilt, 


114  The  Lost  Chimes 

Who  undeceived  by  lawyer's  tilt, 
Pursued  serenely  logic's  ways. 

Was  justice  clear, — his  heart  was  more, 
He  pitied,  where  the  law  was  plain, 
And  but  for  duty,  he  had  fain, 
Forgiv'n  where  sorrow  did  implore. 

X 

A  year  is  gone,  again  the  spring 
Returns  in  tender  verdure  clad. 
The  little  children's  hearts  are  glad, 
And  robins  in  the  maple  sing. 

A  boy  is  playing  with  the  rim 
Of  some  discarded  carriage-wheel, 
A  large  and  rusty  rim  of  steel. 
Which  on  the  lawn  lends  sport  to  him. 

To  mc  it  speaks  of  circling  years. 
Of  circling  Providence  and  Fate, 
And  the  return  of  this  sad  date. 
The  day  of  loss  and  bitter  tears. 

"Let  children  play"  I  heard  him  say, 
"The  cares  of  life  will  come  full  soon;" 
The  sun  is  dancing  with  the  moon, 
At  the  beginning  of  the  day. 

I  hear  a  child  sing  a  refrain, 
A  song  his  mother  sings  full  oft. 
The  laddie's  voice  is  clear  and  soft, 
An  anodyne  for  sorrow's  pain. 


Elegiacs  115 


I  see  another  munching  bread, 
It  seems  much  sweeter  in  the  free, 
Beneath  the  budding  apple-tree, 
With  soaring  April  clouds  o'er  head. 

Clouds  growing  denser  and  more  dark; 
The  rain  begins  to  spot  the  ground, 
There  is  a  gleam,  and  then  a  sound, 
Which  make  the  children  stop  and  hark. 

And  one  is  crying  out  in  fear. 
And  all  are  skurrying  for  home ; 
O,  well  for  him  to  whom  doth  come 
Its  comfort,  when  the  storms  appear! 

XI 

Whose  carriage,  drawn  by  sable  span. 
Stops  at  the  long  deserted  home? 
It  is  his  dear  ones  who  have  come, — 
The  daughters  of  a  noble  man; — 

And  she  whose  life  was  one  with  his, — 
Whose  love  transcends  the  bounds  of  death,- 
Comes  with  a  rose-boquet's  sweet  breath, 
To  greet  his  mem'ry  with  a  kiss. 

The  heavens  weep,  and  true  hearts  weep. 
And  in  the  house  is  evening-gloom, 
They  stand  together  in  the  room, 
Where  he  this  hour  did  fall  asleep. 

Then  pass  into  the  world  again, 
From  sorrow's  holy  sacrament; — 


Il6  The  Lost  Chimes 

To  one,  who  lingered  near,  it  lent, 
Abiding  greetings  from  his  friend. 

XII 

White  clover  studs  the  velvet  lawn, 
And  fancy  forms  a  monument 
Of  marble-frieze,  a  tracing  blent 
With  emerald  and  rosy  dawn. 

The  carved  stone  is  for  the  eye 

Of  passers  by,  who  needs  be  told, 

In  characters  and  numbers  bold. 

His  name;  when  born;  when  he  did  die. 

To  those  who  love,  the  strolling  breeze 
Is  kindly  whispering  his  name, 
And  who  can  tell  from  where  it  came, 
Or  whither  all  its  music  flees  ? 

O'er  those  the  flowers  cast  a  spell, 
The  dream  of  a  midsummer  night, 
And  with  their  shapes  and  hues,  delight 
Bring  forth  his  name  in  mead  and  dell. 

And  sprightly,  as  from  Elfin  coast, 
There  comes  the  boy  he  loved  so  well. 
His  eyes  and  locks  and  forehead  tell, 
He  is  his  grandsire's  child  the  most. 

The  clover-blossoms,  white  as  snow. 
Attract  his  eye,  as  they  do  mine. 
We  gather  them  and  lightly  twine 
A  garland  for  his  comely  brow. 


Elegiacs  1 1 7 

Such  wreath  put  round  his  tresses  dark, 

Gives  godlike  aspect  to  the  lad; 

He  laughs  and  runs,  his  heart  is  glad. 

With  gladness  of  a  soaring  lark. 

I  heard  thee  say,  when  life  did  slope: 

"Man  is  immortal  in  his  race;" 

And  now  I  see  thee  in  this  face, 

So  radiant,  so  full  of  hope. 

THE  FAREWELL 
In  Memoriam  Frank  J.  Cressy,   M.   D. 

'Twas  here,  where  slopes  the  hill  into  the  vale, 
With  many  a  roof  and  tow'r  and  heav'nward  spire, 
And  rows  of  lofty  elms, — that  wan  and  pale 
He  gazed  upon  the  sunset  and  its  fire, 
Which  glowed  in  sky  and  river,  on  the  green 
And  curving  hills  and  far-off  hazy  plain ; 
The  early  summer  was  upon  the  scene — 
All  fresh  and  verdant  after  days  of  rain — 
He  looked  upon  it  all  with  wistful  eye, 
His  life's  arena  ere  he  went  to  die. 

What  thoughts  came  to  him  then  I  do  not  know, 
But  seldom  man  was  granted  better  place 
To  take  farewell  with  everything  below, 
And  look  into  the  Father's  smiling  face, — 
For  nature's  Vesper,  glorious  with  light, 
Held  sweet  communion  with  the  days  of  yore. 
And  blessed  the  deeds  of  service  and  the  right. 
The  things  that  vanish  not,  forevermore ; 
And  saw  he  this,  then  had  his  last  adieu 
No  painful  pang,  but  rather,  that  he  knew, 
The  morrow  of  that  evening  would  be  fair, 


Ii8  The  Lost  Chimes 

And  rich  in  great  and  good  realities, 
Though,  like  all  pilgrims,  he  wist  hardly  where 
The  homeland  looms  with  bright  felicities. 

With  Cato  he  believed  "it  must  be  so." 
That  this  strange  sojourn  is  not  all  in  vain, 
And  that  somewhere  the  longing  soul  shall  know 
The  meaning  of  the  journey's  toil  and  pain. 
And  find  the  quest  for  which  he  daily  strove, 
Embodied  in  the  light  of  truth  and  love. 

He  said  farewell  to  friends  of  many  years, 

As  sank  the  sun  behind  the  farthest  ridge, 

And  chilly  shadows  came  with  darksome  fears 

To  those  who  homeward  turned,  across  the  bridge; 

And  he  passed  on  with  that  which  ne'er  I  see 

Without  the  feeling  of  a  mystery, — 

The  train  of  life,  the  unknown  destiny. 

The  ardent  hopes,  the  crushing  misery 

It  bears  along,  as  with  a  magic  speed, — 

The  wonder  of  the  age,  the  country's  iron-steed. 

And  in  its  speed  was  hope,  for  at  the  end 
Stood  Skill  and  Wisdom  to  prolong  his  life. 
And  with  him  fared  a  kind  and  trusted  friend, 
And  more  than  all,  his  e'er  devoted  wife, 
But  Skill  and  Love's  most  consecrated  aid 
Could  not  prolong  a  life — that  was  complete. 
And  like  a  man,  the  last  great  toll  he  paid. 
Unfaltering,  his  God  and  Judge  to  meet. 

But  we,  who  took  his  hand  upon  this  slope, 
With  parting  words,  have  in  this  fitting  frame 
Of  nature  placed  his  life  of  work  and  hope, 


Elegiacs  1 19 

And  writ  upon  it  all  his  honored  name, 
A  name  that  lives  in  grateful  memories 
Of  those  to  whom  he  gave  his  ministries. 

BABY  BRUCE 

I  see  her  kneeling  at  the  mound 

Of  baby  Bruce, 

And  placing  on  the  turfless  ground 

Sweet  flow'rs,  profuse, 

I  see  the  pearls  of  bitter  tears 

Fall  on  their  leaves; 

Alas,  that  one  in  tender  years 

So  sorely  grieves! 

Yes,  he  was  fairer  than  the  flow'rs 

Of  rarest  hue. 

His  smile  sweet  as  the  morning  hour's 

Gleam  in  the  dew, 

And  as  we  looked  into  his  eyes 

So  large  and  brown, 

It  seemed  an  angel  from  the  skies 

Had  just  come  down. 

What  heaven  gave,  again  it  took — 

Its  ways  are  good. 

But  now  in  pity  it  does  look 

On  motherhood, — 

Whose  love  so  young,  so  pure,  so  deep, 

Eats  sorrow's  bread, — 

And  whispers:     "Woman  do  not  weep, 

He  is  not  dead." 


I20  The  Lost  Chimes 

A  FUNERAL  OF  A  CHILD  ON 
CHRISTMAS  EVE 

The  dusk  was  upon  hill  and  wood, 
Upon  the  fields  of  soft  new  snow, 
The  pine-trees  in  God's  acre  stood. 
With  branches  laden,  bending  low, 
And  marble  shaft  and  monument, 
Like  mystic,  beings  draped  and  pale, 
Seemed  listening  to  the  bells  that  sent 
Their  Christmas  greeting  through  the  vale. 

Around  an  open,  little  grave 
There  stood  a  group  of  weeping  folk; 
"The  Lord  hath  taken  what  he  gave. 
We  sorrow  not  as  without  hope, 
For  he  who  gave  us  Christmas  eve 
Said :  'Let  the  children  come  to  me. 
Of  such  the  kingdom  is,'  they  live. 
With  him  in  joy  eternally." 

Thus  spake  the  minister  of  God, 
But  still  the  parent's  heart  did  sob. 
And  when  they  heaped  the  frozen  clod. 
He  felt  that  heav'n  his  hope  did  rob. 
Congealing  tears  did  cease  to  fall. 
And  thicker,  denser  grew  the  gloom, 
The  church-bell's  clang  jarred  on  his  soul. 
He  wished  that  grave  for  him  had  room. 


Elegiacs  12 1 

THE  WREATH 

How  shall  I  shake  off  the  darkness, 

The  nightmare  that  feeds  on  my  soul? — 

I  looked  through  the  windows  this  morning, 

Upon  the  embankments  of  snow, 

That  ridged  to  the  porch  of  my  dwelling, 

And  covered  its  floor, 

Where  a  half  buried  branch  of  an  ever-green  rested, 

Torn  from  a  discarded  Christmas-tree, 

Back  of  the  church; — 

The  terrible  wind  of  the  night 

Had  cut  it  and  carried  it  thither. 

Where  in  the  white,  like  a  wreath  it  protruded  its 

green, 
A  wreath  for  the  dead. 
Whose  soul  mid  the  storm  of  the  night 
Had  taken  its  flight. — 
O,  God,  how  utterly  eerie  it  seemed 
To  my  mind  that  had  worried  alone 
Through  the  vigils  of  night! 
And  on  that  day  came  the  message. 
That  she  was  no  more. 


122  The  Lost  Chimes 

LINES  WRITTEN  ON  RECEIVING  NEWS 
OF  MY  FATHER'S  DEATH 

I  sit  alone  in  evening-gloom, 
The  night  is  cold,  and  shrill  the  wind, 
I  make  a  church  out  of  my  room, 
To  find  some  solace  for  the  mind. 

Oft  have  I  spoken  mid  the  throngs 
Of  such  who  pitied  the  bereaved, 
Oft  have  I  listened  to  the  songs 
Which  other  burdened  hearts  relieved. 

But  with  my  grief  I  am  alone, 
Far  from  the  scene  of  those  who  weep, 
Within  the  old  ancestral  home, 
Beyond  the  ocean's  stormy  deep. 

I  have  his  picture  at  my  right, 

I  have  it  clearer  in  my  heart, 

For  blurred  and  darkened  is  the  sight. 

And  rays  of  mortal  day  depart. 

*  T^  ^  ¥^  7^  ¥^  ^  ift 

Thou  wert  so  strong,  so  brave,  so  true, 
I  looked  to  thee,  as  boy  and  youth, 
My  life  did  take  from  thee  its  hue 
In  whatsoe'er  it  has  of  truth. 

Thy  toil,  thy  suffering,  and  love. 
The  love  of  home  and  native  land, 
So  strangely  clear  come  to  me  now, 
Like  blessings  of  an  honest  hand. 


Elegiacs  123 

Thou  saidst  to  me:    "I  will  not  leave 
The  land  wherein  thy  mother  rests;" 
How  could  I  seek  thy  heart  to  grieve 
With  all  this  new  world's  varied  quests? 

Farewell,  I  may  not  see  the  place, 
Where  they  have  laid  thee  by  her  side, 
But  memories  of  vanished  days. 
Shall  ever  dear  with  me  abide. 

The  distance  would  not  let  me  lay 
A  garland  on  thy  sable  bier, 
Therefore  this  wreath,  a  simple  lay. 
Fresh  with  the  dew  of  many  a  tear. 

rU  weave  out  of  my  heart  a  wreath 
Of  flowers  which  e'er  shall  blossom  there, — 
Like  those  red  blood-drops  on  the  heath. 
The  ling  which  winter  cannot  sere. 


THE  GREAT  STRIFE 


WAR  AND  PROVIDENCE 

Above  the  monster  cannon's  roaring  thunder, 
Above  the  hailstorm  of  the  musketry, 
Above  the  shrieking  shells  that  burst  asunder, 
With  def'ning  crash,  man's  strongest  masonry: 
Above  the  tumult  and  the  din  of  battle. 
The  loud  command,  the  bugles'  egging  call. 
Above  the  groans  of  wounded  and  the  rattle 
Of  death  in  thousand  throats,  above  it  all — 

There  is  a  hand  that  overrules  man's  madness. 

And  causes  ev'n  his  anger  Him  to  praise, 

A  hand  which  from  destruction,  grief  and  sadness 

Brings  better  prospects  for  the  struggling  race; 

The  hand  of  Providence  which  in  all  ages 

Has  shaped  the  history  of  human-kind. 

And  we  may  read  upon  its  blood-stained  pages 

The  loving  purpose  of  the  Father's  mind. 

From  Europe's  awful  carnage,  ruin,  sorrow, 
Caused  by  a  greed  insane  and  pride  of  Kings, 
There  will  arise  a  brighter,  better  morrow 
With  righteousness  and  healing  in  its  wings. 
A  day  of  freedom  when  the  thrones  must  tumble, 
A  day  when  nations  shall  cast  off  the  yoke, 
When  none  shall  batten  on  the  poor  and  humble, 
And  untruth  walk  about  in  priestly  cloak. 

When  Celt  and  Teuton,  Slav  and  Anglo-Saxon, 
Shall  wisdom  learn  from  this  their  plunge  in  gore, 
And  cease  to  spend  their  strength  in  paying  tax  on 
Their  daily  bread  for  implements  of  war; 
When  they  shall  dwell  in  harmony  as  brothers, 

127 


128  The  Lost  Chimes 

Which  is  the  true  foundation  of  the  world, 
When  good  of  one  is  good  of  all  the  others, 
Then  will  His  Kingdom's  banner  be  unfurled. 

THE  YELLOW  PERIL 

Written  after  having  heard   the   Hon.   Duncan 
McKinley's  lecture  on  "The  Japanese  in  America." 

Whene'er  the  races  of  the  East 
Shall  rise  like  floods  in  melting-time, 
With  fury  of  the  hungry  beast; 
And  homeless  in  their  native  clime 
Shall  shelter  seek  in  this  great  land; 
Woe  then  to  us,  if  unprepared 
We  are  the  influx  to  withstand ; 
Remember  Rome,  and  how  she  fared ! 

Her  wealth  and  vineyards  did  allure 

The  Goth,  the  Vandal  and  the  Hun, 

Their  hordes  swooped  down,  while  quite  secure 

She  dwelt  beneath  her  summer-sun ; 

Proud  of  her  past  and  opulent 

She  scorned  the  wild  advancing  foe, 

But  found  full  soon  her  legions  spent 

In  warding  off  the  fatal  blow. 

She  fell  and  alien  nations  took 
The  scepter  from  her  feeble  hand; 
Thus  written  is  the  judgment  book. 
Let  statesmen  read  and  understand; 
The  yellow  peril  from  the  East, 
From  Nippon  and  from  old  Cathay 
Will  come  unbidden  to  the  feast, 
If  we  neglect  to  guard  the  way. 


The   Great  Strife  129 


THE  VETERAN 

Eighty  winters  have  turned  him  white, 

White  of  beard  and  of  crown, 

Slackened  his  steps  and  dimmed  his  sight, 

Bent  him  and  weighed  him  down, 

Not  only  with  war,  but  with  toils  of  peace, 

Toil  of  the  pioneer's  life. 

Now  at  eighty  he  takes  his  ease, 

The  fruit  of  his  years  is  rife. 

Proud  he  is  of  the  things  achieved, 
Glad  for  things  as  they  are. 
Greater  far  than  he  once  believed 
When  new  was  his  battle-scar; 
But  he  lives  in  the  past,  and  speaks 
Often  of  bloody  frays, 
Of  roaring  guns  and  shrapnel's  shrieks 
In  dark  Rebellion  days. 

Bull  Run,  Chancellorsville,  but  most 

Gettysburg's  three  days  fight, 

Pickett's  charge,  and  the  thousands  lost, 

Burying  them  in  the  night, 

These  are  subjects  on  which  he  dwells. 

For  he  himself  was  there. 

Younger  he  seems  while  he  sits  and  tells, 

A  smouldering  fire  seems  flare. 

Tales  of  war  by  a  man  who  loves 
Peace  and  good  will  among  men. 
Veterans  pride  without  silken  gloves. 
Calling  the  rebel  his  friend. 
Sighs  he  and  says:  "Oh,  war  is  hell; 


130  The  Lost  Chimes 

Peace  is  the  pearl  of  great  price, 
Costlier  far  than  mortal  can  tell, 
Nations  who  keep  it  are  wise." 

Met  him  I  did  the  other  day, 

Reading  a  morning-sheet: 

"Blame  on  the  Mexicans  for  the  way 

Our  Old  Glory  they  treat, 

Tearing  it  down  from  our  consulate. 

Trampling  it  in  the  mud, 

Flag  of  the  free  must  it  meet  such  a  fate, 

Flag,  bought  with  patriots'  blood !" 

"Reading  such  things,  I  feel  that  I  could 

Shoulder  a  musket  still, 

Feel  that  my  insulted  country  should 

'Rise  in  its  strength  with  a  will, 

Lifting  Old  Glory  o'er  Mexico, 

Ne'er  to  come  down  again, 

Patriots'  fire — has  it  ceased  to  glow? — 

Look  to  your  flag,  young  men!" 

DIES  IRAE 

A  cry  arises  from  the  blood-soaked  earth, 
A  cry  of  anguish,  dying  in  despair. 
And  with  hell's  horrors  is  the  world  engirt. 
The  prince  of  darkness  ruleth  in  the  air. 

The  gods  are  passing,  and  the  kingdoms  fall. 
And  Cosmos  trembles  like  an  autumn  leaf  ; 
What  seemed  the  greatest  sinks  into  the  small, 
And  what  seemed  glory  changes  into  grief. 


The  Great  Strife  131 

The  jewelled  crowns  and  diadems  are  cast 
Into  the  balance  of  the  Only  Just, 
They  are  like  chaff,  which  scattered  by  the  blast, 
Is  lost,  and  mingles  with  the  common  dust. 

The  Dies  Irae  has  arrived  at  last. 
The  books  are  opened  by  the  Lamb  of  God, 
The  age  of  tyranny  and  greed  is  past. 
He  breaks  oppression  with  His  iron-rod. 

And  truth  imprisoned,  justice  quite  forgot, 
Stand  'for  His  judgment-seat  in  spotless  white, 
The  earth  and  heaven  new  shall  be  their  lot, 
Upon  the  morn,  now  dawning  from  the  night. 

A  MAY  MORNING,   1917 

From  purple  woods  the  stock-dove's  notes  are  flow- 
ing, 
As  deep  and  melancholy  as  the  night. 
Whose  shadows  from  the  early  morning's  glowing 
Now  take  their  flight; 
So  sweetly  clear,  and  gently  wooing. 
They  bring  my  soul  an  exquisite  delight. 

A  byre-cock's  crow  comes  shrilly  from  afar, 
And  wakes  loud  answers  in  the  neighbor's  yard. 
They  greet  the  coming  of  Apollo's  car, 
Like  many  a  modern  and  accepted  bard; 
But  to  the  woodland  notes  compared  they  are 
So  challenging,  and  hard. 

The  farmer  rises  wearily  from  bed. 

Looks  on  the  morn,  and  smiles  that  it  is  fair, 


1 32  The  Lost  Chimes 

For  he  must  toil  that  others  may  be  fed, 
And  Providence  has  placed  on  him  its  care, 
While  others  fight,  and  mingle  with  the  dead, 
To  nourish  hope  and  life  becomes  his  share. 

But  who  has  eyes  and  ears  for  nature's  ways? 
Who  goes  to  matin  at  the  stock-doves  call? 
When  man  his  brother  man  so  foully  slays, 
And  nations  into  utter  ruin  fall; 
Must  war  obscure  the  morning's  rosy  rays, 
And  keep  a  May-dawn's  music  from  the  soul? 

A  time  like  this  demands  the  bread  and  meat, 

But  also  music  for  the  famished  heart; 

And  we  should  rise  the  better  things  to  greet, 

Be  they  in  nature,  or  in  perfect  art, 

Lest  struggling  man  at  last  must  fall  beneath 

The  load  in  which  now  all  men  have  a  part. 

MY  SAILOR-LAD'S  LETTER 

In  the  city  of  tents,  by  the  restless  sea, 
My  sailor-lad  long  has  dwelt, 
Since  Fate  has  put  forth  her  dark  decree, 
And  strangely  our  children's  future  is  spelt, 
By  the  horrors  of  things  to  be. 

And  I  think,  in  his  heart  he  begins  to  know 
The  meaning  which  glamor  obscured, 
For  his  words  are  like  cups  that  overflow 
With  things  which  he  has  endured, 
Though  never  just  saying  so. 


The  Great  Strife  133 

For  he  is  as  brave,  and  more  I  ween, 
Than  many  a  fellow-lad, 
And  courage  excels  in  his  cheerful  mien. 
He  even  tries  to  make  others  glad, 
This  sailor  of  seventeen. 

But  a  letter  arrived,  the  other  day, 

To  his  little  sister  of  seven, 

To  whom  he  wrote  in  a  childlike  way 

Of  things  in  a  vision  given. 

And  this  is  what  he  did  say: — 

"I  stood  on  the  shore  of  the  moonlit  lake, 
Where  the  billows  came  rolling  high, 
The  sound  of  the  sea  did  my  soul  awake 
To  the  breaker's  music  and  westwinds  sigh 
And  to  musings  of  my  own  make." 

"Methought  I  saw  on  the  whitecapped  waves 

My  dear  ones  come  to  me, — 

For  the  heart  perceives  what  most  it  craves. 

On  the  world's  dark,  turbulent  sea. 

The  sea  of  clamoring  waves." 

"And  I  saw  you  dance  on  the  foamy  crest, 

Like  a  Naiad  or  spirit  fair. 

And  mother  and  all  whom  I  love  best 

Did  beckon  to  me  out  there. 

In  the  wind  from  the  plains  of  the  west." 

"And  I  called  on  you  all  by  your  dearest  name, 
As  lonely  I  stood  that  night. 
But  none  of  you  heard  me,  and  none  of  you  came. 
But  vanished  full  soon  from  my  sight. 


134  ^^^  Lost  Chimes 

Like  the  sheen  of  a  dying  flame." 

"And  it  may  have  been  the  mist  from  the  spray, 

Or  something  like  that  which  blurred 

My  eyes  as  I  tried  to  look  away, 

And  only  the  moan  of  the  billows  I  heard, 

As  they  came  in  a  wild  array." 

"I  went  to  my  little  tent  in  the  camp. 
All  cold  in  the  April  night, 
My  bed  was  cheerless  and  chill  and  damp, 
And  my  heart  was  heavy  as  I   did  write. 
In  the  light  of  the  sky's  bright  lamp." 

THE  BUGLE   CALL 

America,   awake,   awake ! 

Put  on  thy  armor,  for  the  hour 

Has  come  when  Freedom  is  at  stake! 

Arise,  and  show  thy  spirit's  power, 

And  now,  as  in  thy  youth. 

The  tyrant's  shackles  break; 

And  let  the  truth. 

Which  made  thee  great, 

Decide  the  destiny  of  mankind 

Ere   'tis  too  late! 

To  thee  the  world  is  looking  for  salvation ; 
Thou  hast  it.     Give  it  in  God's  name! 
And  it  will  make  thee  tenfold  more  a  nation- 
Withhold  it,  and  on  thee  shall  be  the  blame 
Of  ages — and  the  shame. 


The  Great  Strife  135 

This  is  the  testing-time, 
Which  like  a  fire  brings  forth 
The  people's  real  worth; 
For  men  from  every  clime 
Is   now   this   testing-time, 
But  we  shall  joy  to  see, 
The  gold  of  love  is  there. 
For  home  and  Liberty, 
And  Loyalty  shall  be 
Their  watchword  everywhere. 

Awake,  America,  awake! 

The  bugle-call  to  arms  is  sounding. 

Thy  sons  are  hearing  it  and  shake 

Old  Glory  to  the  winds,  with  faith  abounding, 

And  'neath  this  emblem  of  the  free 

A  sacred  pledge  they  make, 

That  it  shall  be 

Unharmed  by  any  foe. 

And  aid  the  world  in  despots'  overthrow. 

They   come — these   lads   from   country  -home   and 

town. 
From  crowded  cities  and  the  lonely  plains. 
They  come  in  blouses  blue  and  khaki  brown, 
They  come  by  thousands  on  the  speeding  trains, 
To  meet  the  hardships  and  the  pains. 

Still,  thou,  America,  art  half  asleep. 

Entranced  by  pleasant  ease. 

Thou  dreamest  yet  of  peace. 

For  it  seems  far  across  the  deep. 

Where  death  and  grave  a  harvest  reap-— 

It  seems  so  far  away 


136  The  Lost  Chimes 


The    nations'   judgment   day, 
But,  like  nocturnal  thief. 
It  may  bring  thee  to  grief, — 
Therefore  obey  the  bugle-call  to  fight. 
Arise,  put  on  thy  armor,  show  thy  might! 
July,  191 7 

FLAG-RAISING 

No  longer  as  an  ornament, 

Adoring   festive   places, 
The  flag  is  to  the  masthead  sent. 

Before  uplifted   faces, — 
No  longer  as  a  children's  play 

We  fling  it  to  the  breezes, 
With  thoughtless  praise  on  gala-days, 

When  each  acts  as  he  pleases. 

But  like  a  sacramental  act 

Its  raising  is  attended. 
When  loyal  hearts  behold  a  pact 

In  colors  sweetly  blended, — 
When  men,   responsive  to  its  call, 

Make   grim    determination. 
That  tyranny  at  last  must  fall 

Before  a  freeborn  nation. 

And  as  it  waves  above  their  heads, 

'Tis  like  a  benediction 
Which  sacredness  and  glory  sheds 

On  men   of  just  conscription, — 
They  stand  aloof,  they  seem  apart. 

Like  heroes  consecrated, 


The  Great  Strife  137 

So  true  and  brave,  so  strong  of  heart 
To  freedom  dedicated. 

October,  191 7 

THE  RED  CROSS 
{In  hoc  signo  vinces.) 

O,  crimson  cross  of  Calvary! 

O,  heavenly  sign  of  Constantine! 

O,  mercy-emblem  of  the  free, 

The  victory  must  still  be  thine! 

Thou  paradox  of  horrid  war 

Shalt  stand  unscathed  when  it  is  o'er! 

Was  by  this  sign  the  pagan  host 
On  Tiber's  banks  subdued  at  last, 
Without  the  reck'ning  of  the  cost. 
And  all  the  suff'ring  of  the  past, 
How  much  less  now  should  money  be 
The  measure  of  its  victory ! 

A  holy  emblem  of  the  hearts 
Which  love    and  weep,  and  gladly  give, 
That  each  true  soldier  who  departs 
May  mid  the  conflict  hope  to  live. 
For  when  he  does  the  cross  behold. 
It  cheers  his  soul  and  makes  him  bold. 

Ah,  let  it  go  where'er  he  goes, 

With  all  its  kindly  ministries! 

Through  this  from  million  hearts  there  flows 

A  stream  of  warmest  sympathies; 

And  must  he  give  his  all,  even  then, 

It  is  to  him  his  last  true  friend. 


138  The  Lost  Chimes 

Speed  on,  Red  Cross,  thou  heaven-sent, 
Into  the  lands  of  pain  and  woe. 
Until  their  madness  shall  be  spent, 
And  thou  shalt  stand  amid  the  glow 
Of  that  new  dawn  of  Brotherhood, 
A  symbol  of  man's  highest  good ! 

THE  DOLEFUL  MOTHER  OF  MANKIND 

"Rest,  rest,  perturbed  Earth! 

O,  rest,  thou  doleful  mother  of  mankind !" 

Wordsworth 

I  have  not  seen  thy  beauty  for  the  pall 

Of  horror,  hanging  over  all  the  world, 
I  have  not  heard  thy  music  for  the  din 
Of  battle-lines  against  each  other  hurled. 

And  now  thy  face  is  covered  with  a  shroud 
Of  purest  white,  and  thou  wilt  take  thy  rest ; 

The  winds  will  sing  their  evening  lullabies. 
With  memories  of  love  and  feathered  nest. 

And  mothers,  at  the  dusk,  will  list  thereto, 
And  think  of  croonings  in  the  years  gone  by, 

When  little  boys  sat  by  the  window-panes. 
And  gazed  with  wonder  on  the  moonlit  sky. 

And  now,  perchance,  they  lie  beneath  thy  shroud. 
Or  destined  soon  to  join  the  sleeping  host, — 

War's  sacrifice,  O  God,  how  man  doth  sin! 
How  in  the  utter  darkness  he  seems  lost! 


The  Great  Strife  139 

How  far  from  nature  has  he  erred  and  strayed, 
A  prey  to  greed,  and  arrogance  of  kings! 

Shall  he  at  last,  a  prodigal,  return 

To  dwell  in  peace  'neath  the  "Almighty's  wings?" 

The  doleful  mother  of  mankind  doth  wait. 
And  when  her  children  come,  anew  she  dons 

Her  spring-attire,  and  smiles  forgivingly. 
And  breathes  her  peace  upon  her  weary  sons. 

And  then  again  FU  feel  the  throb  of  joy, 
And  glory  in  the  wonders  of  thy  face. 

Yea,  revel  in  thy  thousand  harmonies. 
And  wander  satisfied  along  thy  ways. 

MIDWINTER'S  DREAM 
(1918) 

Full  tired  of  war  and  worry  do  I  turn 
To  nature  in  her  sweet  midwinter  dreams,  * 

To  purple  twilights,  when  the  day's  last  beams 
Like  flick'ring  candles  on  the  snowdrifts  burn, 
While  star  and  crescent,  in  the  deepest  blue. 
Shed  peace  on  fields  and  woods  and  frozen  lakes; 
And  from  the  creeping  shadows  soon  awakes 
Life's  fairy-world,  the  one  as  boy  I  knew 
In  unfeigned  joy  that  varied  with  each  scene 
Of  winter's  whiteness,  or  midsummer's  green. 

The  dormant  earth  dreams  of  the  life  to  be, 
When  spring  returns  to  call  it  from  the  grave. 
When  through  its  breast  shall  rush  the  ardent  wave 
Of  love  and  hope,  and  songs  of  ecstasy ; — 
But  in  the  moonlight  and  the  shadows  dun 


140  The  Lost  Chimes 

The  dreams  appear  in  emblems  vague  and  frore, 
Like  wandering  spectres  from  a  mystic  shore 
Which  track  the  glory  of  the  setting  sun 
Like  love,  that  plays  behind  a  rosy  screen, 
Because  'tis  yet  too  modest  to  be  seen. 

The  w^inter  heavy  hangs  on  humankind — 

In  homes,  and  camps,  and  on  the  stormy  seas, 

On  Europe's  battlefields,  whose  miseries 

Appall  with  horrors  every  normal  mind; 

Its  million  graves,  decked  with  the  covering 

Of  jewelled  purity,  where  heroes  sleep, 

At  whose  low  crosses  countless  hearts  must  weep, — 

Is  holy  ground,  where  life  shall  take  its  wing 

To  truer  freedom  and  a  larger  love, 

With  peace  on  earth  and  good  will  from  above. 

Our  country's  dream:  that  when  the  southwind's 

breath 
Shall  wake  to  life  and  gladness  all  the  land, 
Like  risen  pow'r  our  chosen  youth  shall  stand 
Around  the  flag  which  means  the  tyrant's  death, — 
That  like  the  life  which  quickens  everything. 
Our  hosts  from   South  and   North  and   East  and 

West 
Shall  fare  rejoicing  o'er  the  ocean's  crest. 
And  Freedom's  victory  to  Europe  bring, — 
Midwinter's  dream  in  every  loyal  heart, 
Who  dreams  it  not,  in  Freedom  has  no  part. 


BY  THE  WAYSIDE 


THE  CANADIAN  PRAIRIES 

Two  hundred  long  miles  and  never  a  tree, 

O,  nothing  but  plains  all  scorched  by  the  sun! 

The  buffalo's  trails  one  freely  may  see, 

Which  over  the  billowing  ridges  run. 

And  here  the  Indian  hunted  at  will, 

And  slaughtered  and  wasted  the  bison  wild. 

The  heaps  of  its  bleached  bones  bear  witness  still 

How  wanton  was  he,  the  prairie's  child. 

Yes,  here  is  a  wildness  which  bids  my  soul 
To  saddle  my  pony  and  ride  away, 
And  follow  its  weird  and  mysterious  call 
To  freedom  complete,  if  just  for  a  day, 
To  follow  the  paths  where  the  bison  did  roam, 
To  list  to  the  coyotes  and  prairie-dog's  bark. 
But  thankful  at  night  for  the  lone  settler's  home 
And  a  gleam  of  his  light  in  the  dark. 

THE  ROCKY  MOUNTAINS 

Majesty,  power,  and  dominion  and  glory. 

Be  unto  Thee  who  these  wonders  hast  wrought. 

Mountain  peaks  lofty,  all  snow-capped  and  hoary. 
Thou  alone  knowest  their  wonderful  story, 

When   from   the   bowels   of   the   earth   they  were 
brought. 

Strangest  formations  and  glaciers  beaming. 
Cataracts  rushing  from  dizziest  heights. 
Emerald  rivers  with  great  swiftness  streaming, 
Crystal-clear  rivulets  rushing  and  gleaming. 
Ne'er  did  I  witness  more  glorious  sights. 

143 


144  -^^^  Loi-/  Chimes 


Down  in  the  valley  the  flowers  are  growing, 
Trees  too,  yea,  forests  are  flourishing  there, 
Sweetly  their  fragrance  on  cool  breezes  flowing, 
Terrible  grandeur  is  meek  beauty  wooing, 
Happy  the  love-pact,  the  harmony  rare. 

Thus  is  the  image  of  God  here  reflected, 

Mighty  sublimity,  lowliness  sweet, 
Happy  the  pilgrim  who  this  has  detected, 
Travel-worn  be  he,  yet  never  dejected. 

Since  he,  O,  Father,  may  sit  at  Thy  feet. 

MOUNT  SHASTA 

When  from  the  fiery  pangs  of  earth  this  queen 
Of  mountains  was  brought  forth,  the  spirits  of 
The  air  desired  to  dress  her  in  the  sheen 
And  glory  of  their  pure  celestial  love; 
They  gave  her  for  a  veil  the  fleecy  cloud, 
Which  gently  floats  about  her  lofty  brow; 
They  gave  her  for  a  mantle  to  enshroud 
Her  shoulders  strong  the  ever  glittering  snow; 
And  then  they  called  upon  the  fir  and  pine 
To  weave  a  robe  of  never  fading  green, 
And  with  the  silver  stream  their  wool  entwine. 
That  here  and  there  its  bright  gleam  might  be  seen ; 
She  thus  adorned  has  stood  for  eons  long, 
The  queen  among  the  mountains  of  the  west, 
In  beauty  cloth,  inspiring  men  to  song. 
And  lifting  human  thoughts  to  what  is  best. 


By  the  Wayside  145 


VERSES 

Written  while  sailing  from  Vancouver  to  Seattle. 

I've  seen  the  forest  and  mountains, 
I've  seen  the  far  stretching  plain, 
But  oh  for  a  whiff  of  the  briny  sea, 
And  a  journey  across  the  main! 

Oh,  ,then  does  my  soul  find  its  pleasure, 
Akin   to  my  childhood   joy, 
For  my  home  was  close  to  the  seashore, 
And  I  lived  with  the  fjord  as  a  boy. 

Its  unbounded  freedom  and  greatness 
Created  a  love  in  my  soul, 
And  never  I  sail  o'er  the  surging  sea, 
But  liberty's  voice  does  me  call. 

Its  mystery,  aye,  and  its  music 

Have  followed  me  all  the  way, 

And  borne — as  they  are —  by  the  foaming  wave. 

They  blend  in  an  unsung  lay. 

And  all  day  long  do  I  listen. 

And  all  day  long  do  I  look 

To  freedom  which  never  was  nation's, 

To  songs  that  were  never  in  book. 


146  The  Lost  Chimes 

TO  AN  UNKNOWN  MUSICIAN 

(Verses  written  while  listening  to  a  melody 
played  on  board  the  ''Princess  Charlotte,"  sailing 
through  the  strait  of  Juan  de  Fuca) 

What   is  nature's  charms   and   grandeur, 

When  compared  to  what  man  is, 

In  his  sorrows  and  his  longings. 

In  his  triumphs  and  his  bliss! 

Oh,  a  soul  that  hath  such  feelings. 

As  the  one  who  now  doth  play, 

Such  a  depth  of  true  emotions. 

Lives  in  God's  eternal  day! 

Thou  unconsciously  hast  moved  me, 

I'm  a  captive  at  thy  will, 

Though  in  thousand  leagues  of  journey 

Oft  my  soul  has  had  its  fill 

Of  the  beauty  of  creation. 

Known  its  raptures  and  delight. 

Yet  not  once  such  inspiration 

Has  possessed  me  as  tonight. 

Play,  play  on  thou  sweet  musician. 
While  the  darkness  gathers  round, 
While  our  ship  is  speeding  onward 
With  a  rhythmic,  rushing  sound, 
While  the  stars  look  down  upon  us, 
Mirrored  in  the  tranquil  sea. 
Render   thy    interpretation 
Of  life's  joy  and  misery. 


By  the  Wayside  147 


SEATTLE 

(A   meditation) 

Thou  princess  of  the  sea,  how  thou  hast  grown, 
Since  last  I  saw  thee,  and  how  beautiful! 
The  ocean-breezes  must  to  thee  have   blown 
The  ardent  health  which  nothing  wrong  could  dull, 
The  blood  of  races  mingle  in  thy  veins, 
The  spirit  of  two  worlds  have  met  in  thee. 
Most  genial  and  free  thou  here  dost  reign, 
A  charming  princess  of  the  western  sea. 

It  was  with  thee  I  did  a  year  abide, 
A  year  so  antithetically  mixed. 
When  painful  doubts  forbade  me  to  confide, 
And  life's  career,  confessed,  still  was  unfixed; 
May  be  it  was  thy  spirit,  which  I  felt. 
That  gave  me  song  and  Oriental  dreams. 
And  when  in  Occidental  shrines  I  knelt, 
Of  Oriental  truth  there  came  bright  gleams. 

And  hath  not  doubts  been  harassing  my  soul. 
And  had  I  shunned  to  give  a  heed  to  fears, 
But   followed — like  thyself — the   Spirit's   call. 
How  different  had  been  the  lapsing  years; 
Perhaps  I  then  with  glory  now  could  meet 
The  growth  and  life,  I  see  on  every  hand, 
But  now  I  sit  in  sorrow  at  thy  feet, 
And  find  my  name  was  written  in  the  sand. 


148  The  Lost  Chimes 

GJOA 

Capt.  Amundsen's  Ship  in  San  Francisco 

Within  the  sound  of  the  Pacific's  roar 

Stands  Gjoa  amid   palms  and  myrtle  trees, 
Her  prow  is  lifted  toward  the  rocky  shore, 

As  if  impatient  for  the  stormy  seas, 
The  sturdy  little  ship  of  Arctic  fame, 

Which  bears  from  storms  and  ice  full  many  a 
mark, 
Now  like  a  lion  in  a  cage,  grown  tame, 

Stands  here — a  relic  only — in  a  park. 

A  precious  relic  to  Norwegian  hearts. 

With  pride  and  gratitude  they  look  on  thee; 
Proud  that  thou  sailed,  where  man  had  made  no 
charts. 

The  first  explorer  of  a  strait  and  sea. 
And  grateful  that  the  land  of  Vikings  still 

Has  sons  of  courage  and  adventure  bold ; 
For  Roald  Amundsen  forever  will 

Remain  a  man  of  true  heroic  mold. 

And  thou  art  here  incaged  to  sniff  the  brine, 

Forsaken  by  the  captain  and  his  crew, 
A  monument  the  great  throngs  to  remind. 

What  talent  mixed  with  manliness  can  do, 
And  that  a  nation  may  be  small,  yet  great, 

Be  poor  and  still  excel  in  noblest  ken, 
A  silent  witness  at  the  Golden  Gate; 

A  nation's  glory  is  her  greatest  men. 


By  the  Wayside  149 


THE  GRAVE  IN  THE  DESERT 

Amid  the  plains  of  yellow  sand  and  cactus, 
Encircled  by  the  distant  barren  hills, 
Amid    the   awful    desert   of    Nevada, 
Beneath  the  glaring  sun  which  burns  and  kills, 
There   is  a  lonely  grave,   where  the  San  Padro 
Fast  speeds   from   palm-groves  of   Los   Angeles, 
A  lonely  grave  just  by  the  road-side. 
Which  kindly  hands  unselfishly  did  bless. 

A  wooden  cross  is  standing  at  its  head. 

On  which  no  name  nor  date  they  did  inscribe. 

Still,  half  in  ruin,  it  stands  there  to  bless 

An  unknown  sleeper  of  the  wandering  tribe. 

And  at  the  foot  the  symbol  of  his  life, 

No  fitter  epitaph  on  any  grave — 

For  man  is  but  a  restless  sojourner. 

So  there  they  placed  the  pilgrim's  handworn  stave. 

Who  was  he?     None  can  tell,  some  say  a  tramp. 
Who  stole  a  ride  and  crushed  was  'neath  the  wheels ; 
But  tramps  are  also  men,   and   sometimes  more 
Of  worth  than  their  unhappy  plight  reveals; 
But  this  I  know:     He  was  a  mother's  son, 
Who  still  may  wonder  how  her  boy  does  fare, 
Who  still,  perchance,  is  praying  for  this  one. 
The  chiefest  object  of  her  loving  care. 

May  be  some  other  hearts  are  looking  for 
His  coming  home,  though  after  many  years. 
Who  think  of  him  as  he  was  in  his  youth. 
And  seldom  speak  his  name,  except  with  tears, 
Who  know  not  of  this  solitary  grave. 


I50  The  Lost  Chimes 

Where  death  and  weird  oblivion  do  reign, 
Where  all  seems  hopeless,  save  the  crumbling  cross, 
Which  shall  at  last  life's  mystery  explain. 

THE  MOUNTAINS  OF  THE  PROPHET 

In  the  purple  of  the  morning, 
Through  the  dreamy  haze  of  day  spring. 
Did  the  mountain-tops  'round  Salt  Lake 
Loom  before  us,  as  the  desert 
We  were  leaving  far  behind  us. 
"Lofty  mountains  of  the  prophet," 
Did  I  mutter  without  thinking, 
Came  the  words,  as  if  repeated 
After  some  one  who  knew  better. 
After  one  whose  inspiration 
Was  from  truth  and  heavenly  wisdom; 
And  instinctively  I  pondered 
That  the  prophet's  eyes  had  often 
Lifted  been  to  these  blue  mountains, 
Whence  his  help  should  come,  and  glory 
Of  the  Lord  appear  to  Zion, 
And  'mongst  which  the  trail  was  winding, 
Bloody  trail  of  weary  pilgrims, 
Seeking  an  abiding  city. 
Guarded  by  their  rugged  fastness. 
And  the  wide  expanse  of  Salt  Lake. 

Here,  where  seemed  but  barren  desert. 

Did  the  prophet's  eye  see  visions 

Of  a  city  and  a  temple, 

Where  the  saints  should  dwell  in  saf'ty. 

Where  in  peace  they  God  might  worship; 

And  this  vision,  now  made  real, 


By  the  Wayside  151 

Lends  a  lustre  to  the  mountains, 
Gives  a  romance  to  their  valleys; 
And  v^hate'er  their  names  may  be,  I 
Call  them  mountains  of  the  prophet. 

CHICAGO 

O,  wonder  of  our  age! 

Consummate  wonder,  not  of  state  alone,  but  of  our 

land, 
Unique  among  the  cities  dost  thou  stand 
Upon  the  page 

Of  history,  in  youth  and  might! 
Thou  didst  spring  forth  as  in  a  night, 
From   where  the  redman   roved 
Along  the  dreamy  shores  of  Michigan, 
Where  four-score  years  ago 
Thy  life  began; 
Some  fairy  moved 
Her  wand  upon  thee. 
For  like  a  fabled  urban  didst  thou  grow. 

Colossal  mart, 

Of  commerce,  like  the  heart 

Thou  sendest  out  through  arteries  and  veins 

Pulsating  life  into  the  world; 

Napoleons   of   business-brains 

Are  marshalling  their  forces, 

With   colors   high   unfurled, 

Not  on  war-harnessed  horses. 

To  madly  fight, 

To  kill  and  blight, 

But  to  employ  each  pow'r 

To  make  thee  stronger,  better  every  newborn  hour. 


152  The  Lost  Chimes 

Thy  mighty  citadels  of  stone, 

So  huge,  so  tall, 

So  many  and  immense. 

That  with  their  burden  mother  earth  seems  groan, 

Throb  with  a  life  intense, 

And  from  thy  canyons,  we  call  streets, 

Great  traffic's  constant  roar  us  meets. 

Great  is  thy  wealth, 

Great  is  thy  woe, 

Less  great  thy  health, 

But  great  is  its  foe; 

Within  thy  pale  the  great  extremes 

Of  good  and  evil  dwell: 

Felicities  of  heavenly   dreams. 

And  hopelessness  of  hell: 

Above  thy  scum  of  things 

The  voice  of  heaven  sings. 

July,  191 5 

THE  ISLE  OF  DREAMS 

The  island  of  dreams  lies  not  far  away, 
Encompassed  by  sunlight  and  sea, 
I  happened  to  reach  it  the  other  day. 
While  breezes  were  playing  so  languidly — 
My  boat  scarcely  moved  on  the  bay. 

And  this  is  the  island  I  happened  to  find. 
The  isle  'mid  the  glittering  deep: 
A  bower  with  luxuriant  foliage  entwined, 
'Mongst  rocks  that  are  mossy  and  steep, 
Where  shadows  give  rest  to  the  mind. 


By  the  Wayside  153 


And  here  in  the  shade  is  a  clear,  cooling  spring, 

Which  ceaselessly  murmurs  its  song, 

And  down  in  a  glade  the  brown  thrushes  sing, 

In  afternoons  drowsy  and  long, 

In  hours  that  bear  dreams  on  their  wings; 

And  balm  for  the  care-laden  spirit  have  they, 

Of  duty  forgetfulness  sweet. 

With  fragrance  of  roses  they  lead  you  astray, 

To  realms  of  fair  visions  replete, 

Bright  visions  of  midsummer-day. 

The  fairies  are  here  and  the  unreal  things, 

Derided  by  men  of  pure  facts. 

Though   Science  doth  saunter  here,  sometimes  she 

clings 
To  fancy's  prophetical  acts, 
And   out   of   the  dreamland   them   brings. 

Yea,  great  things  are  born  in  this  enchanted  place, 

Where  poets  do  loiter  and  rest, 

Beholding  fair  visions  which  beckon  their  race 

To  vistas  more  lofty  and  blest, 

In  beauty's  immaculate  ways. 

LAKE  HARRIET 

Behold  the  noiseless  sailboat  and  canoe. 
That  slowly  glide  upon  the  glassy  lake. 
Which  wedded  seems  to  heaven's  lofty  blue, 
And  every  silver  cloud  within  its  wake; 
The  lonely  youth  dreams  as  he  moves  along, 
And  who  can  tell  what  wondrous  dreams  they  be. 
Fit  theme,  I  ween,  for  any  poet's  song. 
Of  sadness  or  of  gladsome  reverie. 


154  ^^^  Lo5/  Chimes 

There  also  sail  the  lover  and  his  lass, 
They  laugh  and  chat,  and  have  a  gleeful  time. 
For  them  the  golden  moments  swiftly  pass. 
Since  they  are  living  in  life's  summer  clime, 
To  them  sweet  nature's  beauty  doth  exist 
As  background   only   to  their   happiness. 
And  heav'n  the  blue-eyed  Harriet  has  kist, 
Because  their  own  true  love  they  dare  confess. 

And  o'er  the  water  strains  from  Lohengrin 
Come  floating  from  the  Grecian-pillard  stand, 
And  add  enchantment  to  the  charming  scene. 
The  wedding-scene  of  sky  and  sea  and  land, — 
The  hymeneal  of  youth's  dreams  of  life. 
Of  hearts  aglow  with   love's  sweet  fervency. 
Of  thousand  souls  who  here  forget  their  strife. 
And  for  an  hour  their  wonted  misery. 

THE  CUBIST 

I  wandered  to-day  in  an  institute, 

A  wonderful  palace  of  art, 

And  this  I  can  say  in  spirit  and  truth. 

It  was  a  delight  to  my  heart, 

To  see  how  the  masters  of  ages  past 

Have  found  a  place  in  this  shrine. 

Till  I  came  to  a  room,  methinks  'twas  the  last, 

Which  the  Cubist's  contortions  confine. 

A  disgrace,  I  said,  to  allow  in  this  place, 
What  lunatic  homes  should  adorn, 
An  insult  to  art  and  the  human  race, 
Of  spirits  degenerate  born, 


By  the  ff^  ay  side  I55 


A  meaningless  daub,  a  horrid  display 
Of   colors   and   lines   and    all, 
But  then  to  myself  I  also  did  say: 
May  be  'tis  the  age — and  its  soul. 

A  wicked  word  it  was  this  to  say, 

As  I  left  for  the  congested  street, 

And  followed  the  masses  which  made  their  way 

To  a  place  where  ten  thousand  did  meet 

Three  times  a  day,  to  be  edified 

With  burlesque,  in  Jesus  name, 

And  painfully  in  my  soul  it  cried: 

"The  Cubist  again,  just  the  same!" 

I  glanced  at  a  paper  at  hour  of  sleep. 

And  found  a  whole  page  about  bards. 

Who  gained  a  renown  by  a  single  leap, 

With  something  which  all  art  discards, 

Again  I  said:  'tis  the  Cubist's  age, 

A  prophet  is  he  after  all, 

Of  the  church  and  the  stage  and  the  printed  page. 

Of  the  age  that  has  bartered  its  soul. 

THE  HANDCLASP 

Full  thousands  of  leagues  over  land,  over  seas, 
I  travelled,  for  two  things  to  find: 
From  work,  and  its  routine,  a  needed  surcease, 
And  knowledge,  to  quicken  the  mind. 

I  moved  mid  the  crowds  in  the  cities  of  fame, 
I  pondered  their  pleasures  and  pride, 
A  stranger,  alone,  wherever  I  came, 
I  heard  but  the  surge  of  the  tide. 


156  The  Lost  Chimes 

Though  knowledge  increased  with  the  sight  of  the 

new, 
Though  grandeur  gave  thrills  of  delight, 
Though  marvelling  oft  at  the  things,  man  can  do, 
Yet  weariness  came  with  the  night. 

And  I  longed  for  the  sound  of  the  voice  of  a  friend, 
I  longed  for  my  home  far  away, 
When,  behold,  I  met  one  at  a  thoroughfare's  end. 
At  the  close  of  a  wearisome  day! 

The  clasp  of  his  hand,  with  the  love  of  his  heart, 
The  warm  and  the  genuine  grip, 
Brought  greater  delight  than  the  sight  of  all  art, 
And  all  wonderful  things  of  the  trip. 

A  COUNTRY  STORE 

Beside  a  winding  country  road 
A  house  unique  one  sees. 
It  used  to  be  the  Lord's  abode. 
Now  that  of  groceries. 

A  church  with  graveyard  in  its  rear, 
Where  many  saints  do  sleep, 
O,  could  they  rise,  I  greatly  fear. 
It  would  be  for  to  weep. 

Beholding  what  the  years  have  wrought 
In  changes  of  the  place. 
How  man  for  gain  has  rudely  sought 
Its  mem'ries  to  efface. 


By  the  fV  ay  side  157 


For  here,  where  generations  met 
To  worship  God  in  truth, 
Now  Mammon  has  his  motto  set, 
With  Vandal  hand  uncouth. 

Where  once  did  sound  the  Holy  Word, 
By  men  of  earnest  heart, 
Now  bargainings   are   daily  heard, — 
The  language  of  the  mart. 

Where  once  the  altar  stood,  now  stands 
A  stove  around  which  sit 
The  gossiper's  unholy  bands 
And  swear  and  lie  and  spit. 

And  could  each  much  neglected  mound 
Yield  up  its  dust  to  life  again. 
The  words  of  Christ  would  then  resound 
*'My  Father's  house  ye  made  a  den." 

But  thus  our  sacrilegious  age 
Is  blinded  by  the  god  of  gold. 
Soon  finished  is  its  sacred  page, 
Our  days  of  worship  well-nigh  told. 


158  The  Lost  Chimes 

SUNSETS  ON  CLEARWATER  LAKE, MINN. 
(To  Mrs.  A.  W.  W.) 

First  Evening 

A  path  of  trembling  gold,  from  where  I  stand. 

Across  the  limpid  lake,  to  darkling  woods, 

Upon  the  far  off  strand. 

Where  evening's  glory  broods, 

Until  it  changes  into  rose, 

A  livid  pink,  suffusing  all. 

The  mighty  water's  deep  repose; 

And  as  the  fiery  ball 

Drops  into  clouds  on  the  horizon's  rim. 

The  hue,  most  delicate,  takes  on  a  crimson  glow. 

In  which  the  shadows  of  the  shore  grow  dim, 

And  slowly  all  things  into  darkness  flow; 

Anon  the  moon  appears  and  clothes  the  scene 

And  floating  mist-veil  into  languid  sheen. 

Second  Evening 

A  sea  of  fire  in  which  a  sky 

Of  lavender  and  blue  and  red 

Together  with  the  clouds  of  changing  dye 

Reflected  are — divinely  wed  ; 

And  we,  who  rove  about,  are  led 

By  an  illusion,  such  as  seldom  seen: 

A  strange  receding  of  the  deep. 

As  if  we  sat  above  a  waterfall. 

O'er  which  our  skiff  full  soon  must  leap 

Into  immensity,  bright,  hyaline. 

Where  brooding  spirits  beck  and  call. 


By  the  Wayside  159 


A  glorious  view  is  heaven  in  the  depth 
Of  tranquil  seas,  but  more 
Its  virtues,  mirrored  in  a  human  heart ; 
And  thou,  who  hast  its  kindnesses  so  kept, 
That  changing  vistas  or  receding  shore 
Can  not  extinguish  life's  immortal  part 
In  the  abiding  love  divine,  as  clear 
As  all  this  evening  glory  in  a  glassy  mere. 
Art  more  than  all  what  nature  can  express. 
Whose  word    can   cheer,   whose   gentle   hand   can 
bless. 

Illusions! — much  is  but  illusions: 
Fear,  and  all  the  ghosts  that  troop  with  it. 
The  good  alone,  in  all  its  sweet  effusion, 
Is  real  as  the  sun,  by  which  the  world  is  lit; 
The  cataract  of  death,  the  dread  abyss — 
Does  not  exist,  for  all  the  light  is  His. 

Third  Evening 

To-night  the  rising  storm-clouds  hide 
The  sun's  departure  from  our  gaze; 
A  heavy  mist  begins  to  glide 
Across  the  water's  ashen  face; 
A  host  of  swallows,  circling,  fly 
Like  cavalcades  upon  a  plain ; 
A  myriad  of  insects  die. 
Uncounted  lives,  like  drops  of  rain 
Lost  in  the  sea,  lost  in  the  All, 
The  life,  the  death,  the  Oversoul. 
And  little  children  laugh  and  play 
Upon  the  beach,  and  on  the  pier, 
In  them  the  closing  of  the  day. 
With  gathering  storm,  awakes  no  fear, 


i6o  The  Lost  Chimes 


For  in  their  souls  the  light  remains, 
That  oped   the  water-lily's  breast, 
And  woke  the  warbler's  glad  refrain. 
And  all  the  heart  of  nature  blest; 
What  matters  though  the  clouds  obscure 
Its  finished  course  one  single  eve, 
If  we,  like  children,  can  allure 
Even  clouds  and  mist  to  pleasure  give. 

Fourth   Evening 

The  glitt'ring  wavelets  blind  my  sight, 
And  neath  the  hand  I  needs  must  scan 
The  dazzling  shimmer  of  the  light. 
Which   like   Seraphic  highways  span 
The  breeze-swept,  glad  expanse; 
Methinks  I  see  the  Naiads  dance 
To  music  of  the  swaying  reeds 
And  rushes,  where  the  narrows  jut, 
Adorned  with  many-colored  weeds. 
From  Neptune's  gardens  freshly  cut. 

Amid  the  glimmer  one  discerns 

A  boat  wherein  a  youth  doth  stand, 

Like  Hiawatha's  passing,  turn 

Its  prow  with  dreamy  ease  from  land. 

The  well  nigh  naked  youth  to  me 

Is  like  a  god  of  Grecian  mould. 

Whose  perfect  form  and  symmetry 

Is  like  Apollo's  of  old ; 

He  speaks  to  fellows  in  the  deep. 

Whose  heads  move  'mid  the  curling  gleams, 

Alas,  that  death  should  ever  reap 

Among  such  scenes  of  pleasant  dreams! 


By  the  fV  ay  side  i6i 


But  nature  always  clamors  for 
What  she  hath  lent  to  life  a  while, 
And  though  we  borrow  more  and  more, 
And  all  her  powers  do  beguile, 
Yet  comes  the  hour  on  land  or  sea, 
She  asks  for  all  with  usury. 

The  boy  lifts  up  his  hands  and  dives, 

A  pleasant  plunge  that  has  no  dread. 

But  I  recall  some  precious  lives, 

Which  thus  were  reckoned  'mongst  the  dead. 

And  in  my  heart,  at  end  of  day, 

A  prayer  for  the  lads  I  say. 

Fifth  Evening 

Song  of  the  West-wind  o'er  the  waves. 
Song  of  the  billows,  as  the  lave 
The  shoreline  with  a  mystic  moan, 
Song  of  the  rushes  in  the  shallow. 
Song  of  the  aspen  tree  and  sallow, — 
Ever  as  the  undertone. 

Song  of  cicadas  and  the  cricket 
From  ragged  grasses  and  the  thicket, 
Song  of  the  whirring  dragon-fly, 
That  goes  to  sea,  but  for  to  die. 
Song  of  the  warblers,  flitting  nigh, 
Song  of  the  loon's  weird,  distant  cry. 

Song  of  a  horn  on  yonder  hill, 
That  echoes  in  the  far  away, 
The  tone  is  soft  as  of  a  rill, — 
"The  end  of  a  perfect  day" — 
As  sinks  the  sun,  and  I  depart, 
With  all  this  music  in  my  heart. 


i62  The  Lost  Chimes 

TWILIGHT 

A  dull,  pink  evening  sky, 
A  white  ridge  shadow-streaked  below, 
The  tall,  dark  trees  near  by, — 
In  the  deep  snow. 

Two  horses,  one  is  white. 
As  white  as  is  the  new-fall'n  snow, 
The  other  black  as  darkest  night, — 
Along  the  highway  go. 

One,  emblem  of  the  parting  day, 
The   other,    of    approaching   night, 
And  o'er  the  hill  the  rosy  ray 
Of  this  one  hour's  delight. 

APRIL 

O,  I  love  the  month  of  April,  when  the  southwind 
gently  blows. 

Calling  nature  from  its  slumber,  from  cold  winter's 
long  repose, 

Till  the  meadow  its  awakening  by  a  tint  of  ver- 
dure shows. 

And  the  willow  with  bright  saffron  in  the  evening 
sunshine  glows; 

When  the  meadow-lark  is  standing  on  the  fence- 
post,  with  its  throat 

Lifted  up  to  merry  lovesongs  which  across  the 
prairies  float; 


By  the  Wayside  163 


When  the  robin  on  the  house-lawn  proudly  stands 

in  his  red  coat, 
Then  a-sudden  makes  departure  with  a  shrill  and 

happy  note ; — 

When  the  air  is  full  of  meaning,  clothed  in  life's 

sweet   mystery. 
Touching  all  things  with  its  magic,  even  with  love's 

ecstasy, 
And  you  see  it  and  you  feel  it,  it  is  upon  land  and 

sea, 
It  is  nature's  Easter  dawning     after  drear  Geth- 

semane. 

And  the  children's  faces  brighten,  and  their  laugh- 
ter has  a  ring 

Which  no  winter-sport  could  give  them,  and  no 
lamplight  play  could  bring; 

Even  the  aged  in  whose  bosom  life's  enchantments 
seldom  sing, 

Take  a  pleasure  in  the  message  of  this  happy  month 
of  spring. 

Jocund  April,  lovely  April,  of  all  months  my  choice 

thou  art, 
Since  in  thee  there  is  a  solace  for  all  nature's  weary 

heart. 
And  in  thee  there  is  a  promise  that  we  all  shall 

have  a  part 
In  the  hope  which  man  professes  through  his  worship 

and  his  art. 


164  The  Lost  Chimes 

VM  A  PART  OF  THE  WIND  AND  THE 
CURLING  WAVE 

I'm  a  part  of  the  wind  and  the  curling  wave, 
Of  the  budding  trees  and  the  tender  blade, 
A  part  of  the  life  that  has  burst  its  grave, 
Of  crocus  and  buttercup  studding  the  glade, 
Of  the  goose-berry  bush  and  the  shadow  it  throws. 
Of  the  moss  on  the  rocks  and  the  slender  ferns. 
Of  the  burly  weed  that  earliest  grows. 
And  all  that  quickens  and  upward  yearns. 

I'm  a  part  of  the  light,  and  the  golden  flash 
Of  the  flicker's  wing  o'er  the  glittering  pond. 
Of  the  sable  crow  in  the  lofty  ash, 
A-calling  his  mate  in  the  trees  beyond; 
Of  the  dragon-fly's  gossamer  wing  and  flight; 
Of  the  insect  just  risen  from  winter's  sleep ; 
Of  things  that  find  in  the  sun  delight, 
WTiether  they  blossom,  or  fly,  or  creep. 

A  part  of  the  risen  life  and  the  all 
Eternal  Spirit,  anew  each  spring, 
Wherefore  I  follow  its  kindly  call. 
To  hear  the  carol  His  angels  sing, — 
What  saith  it?    O,  you  must  hear  it  alone, 
In  the  paths  of  the  woods  on  an  April  day, 
And  feel,  as  I  do,  you  are  truly  one 
With  nature — to  fathom  the  glorious  lay. 


By  the  Wayside  165 


THE  CHIPPING  SPARROW 

The  clouds  are  hanging  dark  and  low, 
The  budding  trees  are  still  quite  bare, 
And  from  the  North  the  cold  winds  blow, 
Of  spring  we  almost  might  despair. 

But  from  the  branches,  ashen  gray, 
Outside  my  window,  comes  a  song, 
A  warbling  Chipping  Sparrow's  lay. 
To  cold  and  dimness  nonchalant. 

His  music  has  a  thrilling  joy. 
It  warms  the  soul,  allures  a  smile. 
Its  brooding  doubts  he  does  destroy. 
And  makes  it  happy  like  a  child. 

And  now  a  sudden,  cheering  gleam 
Falls  on  him  from  a  rift  of  blue, 
I  see  him  in  a  golden  dream, — 
I  know  that  song  alone  is  true. 

His  crimson  tuft  a  poet's  crown. 
His  tawny  breast  a  badge  of  love, 
And  that  clear  sunray  coming  down, 
Our    Father's   watchful   eye   above. 


1 66  The  Lost  Chimes 

IN  THE  LILAC-BLOSSOM-TIME 

When  the  fragrance  of  the  purple  and  lavender 
lilac-bloom 

Meets  the  sweet  distilled  aroma  from  the  plum 
and  apple-trees, 

And  the  dainty  scent  of  violets  amid  the  garden- 
gloom, 

Where's  the  music  of  the  hum  and  drone  of  pollen- 
painted  bees, 

Then  my  soul  takes  up  its  harp,  which  long  upon 
the  willows  hung, 

And  attunes  it  to  the  gladness  that  is  floating  in 
the  air. 

For  it  is  in  lilac-blossom-time  that  everything  grows 
young, 

And  the  heart  of  man  is  lighter,  and  has  little 
less  of  care. 

In  the  lilac-blossom-time  it  seems,  the  brown  thrush 

blithest  sings. 
And  the  wood-dove  cooes  the  deepest  from  a  breast 

brimful  with  love, 
And  the  Oriole's  glad  music  clearest   'mongst  the 

branches   rings, 
To  its  mate  that  sits  abrooding  on  the  nest  upon 

the  bough; 
And  the  Whip-poor-will  is  calling  from  the  wood- 
lands dark,  at  eve. 
With  a  zest  which  makes  the  farmer  feel  that  even 

the  night  hath  song, 
And  in  the  cool  of  day  he  thinks,  it  is  quite  good  to 

live, 


By  the  Wayside  167 


"Since  after  toil  I  here  can  rest  the  lilac-trees 
among." 

In   the   lilac-blossom-time,    methinks,    are   children 

happiest, 
Since  with  that  blossoms*  coming  a  great  liberty 

draws  nigh, 
The  days  of  school  are  over,  and  they  feel  supreme- 
ly blest 
In  the  days  mid  nature's  glories,   'neath  the  blue 

and  open  sky. 
Or  to  lie  beneath  the  lilacs  with  a  story-book  in 

hand, 
Reading    perfume    into    fancies.    Puck    and    fairies 

twixt  each  line. 
Till  the  heart  is  with  them  dancing  in  a  happy 

wonderland, 
While  the  shadows  of   the   after-noon  with   lilac 

hues  combine. 

In  the  lilac-blossom-time  the  lovers  often  fondly 
meet. 

And  drink  the  blossom's  odor,  a  true  potency  for 
dreams. 

And  oftest  when  the  evening-dew  makes  it  a  ten- 
fold sweet, 

A-trembling  like  a  tear  of  joy  within  the  clear 
moonbeam, 

The  youth  in  his  new  happiness  a  prince  of  king- 
doms  is, 

The  maiden  is  a  being  fair,  as  from  some  other 
clime. 

And  heaven  itself  is  upon  earth  in  that  pure,  bind- 
ing kiss, 


1 68  The  Lost  Chimes 

There  in  her  father's  garden  in  the  lilac-blossom- 
time. 


THE  RUNNEL'S  DITTY 

I  met  a  runnel  amid  the  meads, 

In  the  evening,  in  the  evening. 

And  it  did  ramble  'mongst  rush  and  reeds, 

In  the  evening,  in  the  evening, 

And  I  did  linger  to  hear  its  song. 

As  it  did  carelessly  vs^ind  along. 

In  the  evening,  in  the  evening. 

What  sang  the  runnel  upon  its  way? 

In  the  evening,  in  the  evning; 

I  listened  long  to  its  happy  lay, 

In  the  evening,  in  the  evening; 

But  all  my  musing  seemed  but  in  vain, 

And  all  its  music  awoke  but  pain. 

In  the  evening,  in  the  evening. 

The  blooming  thornapple  on  its  bank. 

Also  listened,  also  listened, 

And  flags  and  buttercups,  dewy  dank, 

Also  listened,  also  listened ; 

And  thrushes  nestling  in  alder-trees. 

Did  hush  their  babes  with  its  melodies, 

And  they  listened,  and  they  listened. 

I  asked  the  violets  on  its  side, 

In  the  evening,  in  the  evening, — 

If  they  its  song  would  to  me  confide. 

In  the  evening,  in  the  evening; 

And  like  some  children  of  guileless  soul 

They  said :  "Its  lay  is  the  song  of  all. 

In  the  evening,  in  the  evening." 


By  the  Wayside  169 

"The  ceaseless  longing  to  reach  the  sea, 

In  the  evening,  in  the  evening; 

The  song  of  life  and  eternity, 

In  the  evening,  in  the  evening; 

A  lay  of  love  in  the  early  morn, 

A  lay  of  hope  to  the  lone  and  lorn, — 

In  the  evening,  in  the  evening." 

THE  CHILD  AND  THE  GOSPEL 
OF  ST.  JOHN 

She  pored  o'er  the  open  page 

Of  the  Gospel,  according  to  John, 

Where  the  Ruler  did  Christ  engage 

At  hours  of  the  silent  night. 

And  sought  for  his  soul  that  light, 

Which  God  sent  forth  through  His  Son. 

But  she  could  not  read  a  word, 

A  child  of  four  summers  she. 

Not  ever,  even  once,  had  she  heard 

That  story  of  second  birth, 

Nor  asked,  like  the  wise  of  the  earth, 

*'0,  Lord,  how  can  these  things  be?" 

Her  face  had  the  glory  of  heaven, 

The  look  of  an  angel  her  eye, 

I  said:     "And  to  her  it  is  given 

To  know,  for  her  soul  is  one 

With  the  soul  of  this  page  of  John, 

And  the  wisdom  that  comes  from  on  high." 


170  The  Lost  Chimes 

THE  BIRTHDAY  CAKE 

Five  little  candles  on  her  birthday  cake, 
Five  little  candles  brightly  burning, 
We  gaze  on  them,  v^^hile  memories  awake 
Of  happy  moments,  nevermore  returning. 

Five  little  years  of  childhood  happiness, 
Five  little  years,  w^hen  oft  we  played  together. 
How  often  did  her  love  and  joy  us  bless, 
When  days  seemed  dark,  and  stormy  was  the 
weather. 

The  tiny  lights  are  dying  one  by  one, 

As  one  by  one  the  years  their  flight  have  taken, 

I  shed  a  tear  for  that  which  thus  is  gone. 

And  kiss  the  child  for  whom  the  cake  was  baken. 

MY  GOLDFISH 

Five  little  goldfish  in  a  vase 
My  simple  study-room  do  grace. 
And  oft  when  tired  of  reading  books, 
I  turn  to  them  my  weary  looks. 
And  pleasure  find  in  their  quaint  ways, 
Reminding  me  of  ancient  lays. 

Amid  the  deep,  on  sparkling  sands, 
A  tow'ring  Gothic  castle  stands, 
Its  gates  and  windows  open  wide. 
Through  which  the  lustrous  carplings  glide, 
Like  sea-nymphs  in  the  days  of  old, 
Like  mermaids  in  an  age  of  gold. 


By  the  Wayside  171 


They  hide  beneath  the  dark  green  weed, 
And  fondly  on  its  frondlets  feed, 
It  seems  an  island  near  the  shore, 
Where  Lorelei  did  sing  of  yore, 
And  gold  and  green  most  softly  blend. 
As  then — ere  romance  had  an  end. 

O,  days  of  legendary  lore, 

Of  fairy-folk  and  nymphs  galore! 

When  tired  of  this  prosaic  age, 

And  weary  of  the  modern  page, 

I  find  my  golden  fish  suggest 

The  dreams  with  which  your  life  was  blest. 

II 

Sometimes,  when  in  uphappy  mood, 

I  on  my  limitations  brood. 

And  think  how  narrow  the  confines, 

In  which  the  soul  almost  repines, 

I  turn  again — just  to  behold 

My  finny  friends  of  burnished  gold. 

How  little  is  their  rounded  sphere. 
Though  rivers  wide  are  rushing  near! 
How  little  chance  themselves  to  be, 
In  freedom's  realm,  the  sunny  sea! 
I  wonder  not  that  mournful  gape. 
And  rolling  glance  they  seem  to  ape. 

Yet,  all  the  pity  I  bestow 

Is  tearless,  since  in  heart  I  know. 

It  would  be  fatal  for  my  fish 

To  leave  the  boun'dry  of  their  dish, 


172  The  Lost  Chimes 


For  they  would  be  an  easy  prey 
To  larger  ones  in  stream  or  bay. 

And  then  this  moral  comes  to  me, 

While  craving  larger  liberty; 

It  might  be  death  the  bounds  to  break, 

Which  fate  and  duty  round  me  make, 

So  be  content  and  get  the  best 

Of  what,  perhaps,  is  but  a  jest. 

THE  FIDDLER'S  CHRISTMAS  MUSIC 
(Founded  on  a  Norwegian  Folk-lore.) 

There  lived  in  the  land  of  Ole  Bull 

A  peasant-fiddler  of  old. 
Whose  soul  with  music  was  often  more  full 

Than  his  violin  ever  told. 
He  knew  not  the  art  of  clefs  and  notes, 

Such  seemed  but  some  mystic  runes, 
But  he  heard  the  music  that  richly  floats 

In  nature's  unwritten  tunes. 

He  played  for  the  dances  at  many  a  farm, 

Led  many  a  bridal  train, 
And  everywhere  did  he  naively  charm 

The  mirth-loving  maid  and  swain; 
But  sometimes  he  played  in  a  lonely  place. 

When  no  one,  perchance,  was  near. 
And  then  there  was  sadness  in  his  face, 

In  his  eyes  a  furtive  tear. 

For  the  strains  which  he  heard  he  could  never  play, 
Though  trying  it  o'er  and  o'er. 


By  the  Wayside  173 


Forgotten  they  were  from  day  to  day, 
And  wandered  his  way   no  more; 

Sometimes  in  anger  he  flung  the  thing, 
Which  would  not  obey  his  soul, 

Then  took  it  again  with  its  broken  string. 
Like  a  mother  her  child  from  his  fall. 

On  a  Christmas  eve  he  had  listened  long 

To  the  tones  in  the  snowy  air — 
The  bells  that  sent  forth  their  joyous  song, 

Re-echoing  here  and  there 
In  mountain  hollow  or  forest  deep. 

Or  far  o'er  the  frozen  fjord, 
A  thousand  voices  woke  from  their  sleep, 

To  join  in  the  heavenly  chord. 

In  the  house  the  Christmas  feast  was  spread. 

And  he  ate  and  drank  as  he  should, 
There  was  meat  and  pudding  and  raisin  bread, 

And  the  Yule-tide  brew  was  good; 
They  feasted  well  on  that  holy  eve, 

And  did  not  forget  a  pray'r. 
And  the  fiddler  felt  it  was  good  to  live. 

For  banished  he  had  all  care. 

In  his  sleep  that  night  he  seemed  to  see 

His  room  full  of  fairy-folk, 
They  danced  about  with  a  wondrous  glee 

To  the  tunes  their  fiddler  awoke — 
Such  tunes  as  he  never  had  heard  before, 

So  soft,  so  clear,  and  gay, 
Like  silver  ripples  against  a  shore. 

In  the  morn  of  a  summer's  day. 


174  ^^^  Lost  Chimes 

He  saw  the  player,  his  strings  and  bow, 

Each  touch  of  his  finger  tips, 
From  which  such  gladness  did  overflow, 

With  pleasure  of  lovers'  lips; 
He  asked  the  elfin  to  teach  him  one, 

Ah,  one  from  his  repertoire. 
Which  he  gladly  did,  and  when  it  was  done, 

Another,  just  for  encore. 

He  taught  him  three,  and  he  taught  him  four. 

Yea,  six,  while  the  fairies  danced, 
Till  a  tankard  of  beer  fell  to  the  floor, 

At  which  the  elfin  glanced. 
And  saw  a  cross  on  its  side  engraved, 

Then  rose  and  run  with  a  cry, 
The  fairies  following,  as  morning  waved 

His  rosy  plumes  in  the  sky. 

The  peasant  awoke  from  his  fairy  dream, 

Sought  his  fiddle,  began  to  play, 
And  strange  enough,  as  it  now  may  seem, 

Remembered  tunes   in  the  elfin  way. 
He  played  them  all  till  the  day  shone  bright. 

He  played  them  all  till  the  church  bells  rang. 
To  call  to  mass  among  candle  lights, 

To  hear  the  story  which  angels  sang. 

But  neither  mass,  nor  the  homily 

Could  fix  his  mind  on  the  solemn  things; 

An  absent  look  in  his  face  one  might  see. 
And  his  fingers  moved  as  on  fiddle-strings; 

His  wife  did  see  it  and  almost  wept. 

And  prayed  that  he  for  sweet  heaven's  sake 

Might  be  from  fairies  and  devils  kept, 


By  the  Wayside  I75 


Both  when  asleep,  or  when  awake. 

That  Christmas  season,  for  three  weeks  long, 

He  played  for  dances,  yea,  every  night, 
His  melodies  were  both  sweet  and  strong. 

And  gave  the  people  such  great  delight, 
They  said  they  never  before  had  heard 

Such  music  come  from  a  violin, 
And  wondereed  much  of  what  things  had  stirred 

The  fiddler's  heart,  or  where  he  had  been. 

But  this  he  kept  to  himself  alone. 

For  often  since  he  the  fairies  saw, 
List  to  their  music  when  brightly  shone 

The  moon  on  greensward  or  glitt'ring  snow, 
And  more  and  more  did  he  learn  their  art, 

Yea,  some  did  whisper,  he  was  possest, 
But  he  had  won  every  woman's  heart. 

When  he  was  old,  and  was  laid  to  rest. 

CRUEL  KITTY 

Kitty  is  playirig  on  the  side  of  the  hill, 

All  in  the  new-mown  grass. 

Hunting  a  butterfly;  O,  don't  you  kill 

That   beautiful   thing,    alas! 

She  caught  it  and  wounded  its  wings ! 

"How  cruel  of  kitty  to  play  in  this  way;" 
Your  friend  on  top  of  the  hill. 
If  she  were  alive,  now  surely  would  say, 
Alas,  that  her  voice  should  be  still! 
That  prattled  of  beautiful  things. 


176  The  Lost  Chimes 

In  her  grave  on  the  hill  the  little  one  lies; 

Her  kitten  at  play  in  the  hay; 

And  looking  thereon  a  mother's  heart  cries, 

With  grief  she  is  pining  away, 

Like  the  butterfly's  sunder-torn  wings. 

TO 


Were  I  an  artist,  I  would  paint  thee  thus: — 
Tall,  lithe  and  slender,  like  a  Grecian  youth 
In  flowing  garb,  whose  lines  enhance  the  form, 
A  face  whose  soul  is  innocence  and  truth. 
And  eyes  of  dreamy  love,  that  blesses  us 
With  gladness,  like  the  sunlight  after  storm. 

Were  I  a  master  of  sweet  music,  I 

Would  turn  the  rhythm  of  thy  motion,  and 

Thy  voice  and  laughter  into  melody, 

A  symphony,  fit  for  a  royal  band, 

With  joy  of  glitt'ring  waves  and  zephyr's  sigh 

With  love's  entrancement  and  pure  ecstasy. 

But  I,  alas,  have  nothing  but  a  rhyme, 
In  which  to  clothe  the  pleasure  of  an  hour, — 
An  hour  amid  the  fields  and  on  the  stream ; 
I  picked  for  thee  the  rarest,  sweetest  flower, 
A  wild  rose,  mingling  odor  with  the  thyme, 
Since  that  seems  truest  of  a  poet's  dream. 


By  the  Wayside  177 


FAREWELL 

Farewell,  dear  lass,  it  grieves  me  much 
That  thou  must  leave  us  here  alone. 
Thou  gav'st  our  summer  months  a  touch 
Of  happiness,  as  seldom  known, 
Thou  gavest  such  a  sunny  cheer, 
That  every  day  seemed  like  a  play, 
And  now,  when  autumn's  winds  blow  drear, 
Thou  needs  must  go  so  far  away! 

The  leaves  lie  yellow  on  the  lawn, 
The  blackbirds  gather  into  flocks, 
The  thrush  and  lark  have  long  since  gone, 
The  crows  sit  cawing  on  the  rocks, 
The  heavy  clouds  soar  wild  and  black 
Across  the  meadows,  sear  with  frost, 
I  stand  alone  beneath  their  wrack. 
And  feel  that  summer's  joy  is  lost. 

But  I  shall  ne'er  forget  thy  smile. 
And  ever  in  my  heart  shall  ring 
The  laughter  which  did  e'er  beguile 
Each  brooding  care  to  take  its  wing. 
Thy  winsomeness  which  woke  my  soul 
From  lethargy's  dun  dreariness 
Shall  leave  a  glamour  over  all. 
And  even  winter's  darkness  bless. 

So  fare  thee  well,  my  brown-eyed  lass. 
May  heaven  keep  thee  pure  and  sweet! 
May  ne'er  a  shadow  o'er  thee  pass 
Of  evil's  harm  or  dark  deceit! 
And  mayst  thou  from  the  Southern  clime 
Return  when  April's  breezes  blow, 


178  The  Lost  Chimes 

When  minstrel  hosts  perceive  'tis  time 
To  lift  their  wings  and  northward  go. 

ALONE 

It  is  good  to  be  all  alone, 

In  the  dark  of  the  night,  aye,  the  starry  night. 

When  those  you  love  truest  are  from  you  gone. 

In  the  far  away,  beyond  sound  and  sight; 

When  the  wind  is  singing  its  sad,  strange  song 

In  gloomy  tree-tops,  a-tow'ring  high, 

And  whispers  the  names  for  whom  you  long. 

And  the  love  for  which  you  sigh. 

It  is  good  to  be  all  alone  with  one's  soul, — 
The  soul  which  so  seldom  has  chance  to  speak; 
It  is  good  to  be  freed  from  the  narrow  and  small, 
To  rise  from  the  vale  to  the  mountain  peak. 
To  be  guided  by  stargleams  into  a  sphere, 
Where  the  world  does  not  reach  with  its  clamour 

and  cry. 
And  there  in  the  silence  pause,  till  you  hear 
-Your  innermost  self  and  the  God  that  is  nigh. 

LINES  ON  AN  OLD  SONGBOOK 

An  old  hymnbook,  owned  by  my  great-grand- 
mother, and  bearing  the  following  inscription: 
Cenfebam  Hafniae  d.  9  Sept.  Anno  1684, 
is  a  collection  of  hymns  and  religious  songs,  written 
by  Dorothe  Engelbrets  Datter,  a  poetess  of  con- 
siderable distinction  in  Norway  and  Denmark  in 
the  17th  century. 


By  the  Wayside  179 


I  faintly  can  remember  still 
A  scene  from  childhood  years, 
A  picture  dim  which  always  will 
Be  treasured  in  my  heart  until 
Beyond  the  change  of  good  and  ill, 
It  glorified  appears. 

I  saw  through  an  half-open  door 
An  aged  woman's  face, 
Amid  the  sunlight  on  the  floor, 
Uplifted  and  it  seemed  adore 
A  heavenly  vision,  or  implore 
For  mercy  and  for  grace. 

An  open  book  was  in  her  hand, 
From  which  she  read  and  sang, 
I  was  too  young  to  understand, 
And  yet  I  thought  it  was  most  grand, 
A  music  from  a  better  land 
Which  through  her  singing  rang. 

This  is  the  book,  or  part  thereof. 
An  aged,  thumbworn  tome, 
Quaint  hymns  of  penitence  and  love, 
By  one  whom  heaven  did  endow 
With  glory  fit  for  Sapho's  brow. 
Far  in  her  northern  home. 

I  look  upon  each  yellow  page. 
Each  stain  and  finger-mark, 
And  see  in  them  my  heritage, — 
My  Great  Grandmother's  heritage. 
Which  did  her  pious  soul  engage, 
In  times  remote  and  dark. 


i8o  The  Lost  Chimes 

PEARLS  AND  PALACES 

I  wandered  down  a  dusty  road, 
And  spent  myself  to  sheer  fatigue, 
Until  I  fell  beneath  a  load 
Of  misery  and  man's  intrigue, 
When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  string 
Of  lustrous  pearls,  close  by  the  way, 
It  seemed  such  strange  a  hap  and  thing, 
That  I  believed  my  sense  astray. 

But  as  I  dared  to  touch  the  gems, 

And  as  I  felt  their  soft  delight. 

And  saw  the  coloring,  which  hems 

The  robe  of  dawn  o'er  snowcapped  height, 

Play  in  their  orbs,  I  felt  a  thrill 

Of   pleasure  surging  through   my  soul. 

And   then  a   peace,  so   rare  and  still, 

Upon  my  restless  heart  to  fall. 

At  length  I  rose  to  journey  on. 

But  with  a  new-born  strength  and  zest. 

The  burden   gone,    I   saw   the  sun, 

I  felt  that  life  is  heaven-blest. 

The  string  of  pearls  I  treasured  most. 

And  guarded  it  with  fondest  care. 

Lest  such  a  fount  of  joy  be  lost. 

Lest  doubt  again  should  me  ensnare. 

I  travelled  long,  at  last  I  came 

Into  a  place  of  Palaces, 

Such  as  in  heaven  have  highest  fame. 

But  which   the   earthbound   covet   less; 

The  saints  of  old  did  know  them  well, 


By  the  Wayside  i8i 


And  gave  their  all  that  they  might  win 
Admittance  to  the  humblest  cell, 
And  God's  forgiveness  for  their  sin. 

Each  pearl  became  within  my  hand 
A  key  wherewith  the  doors  to  ope, 
And  angel  guides  did   ready  stand 
To  point  to  each  sincerest  hope; 
And  dazzling  glory  filled  the  halls, 
To  arched  roof  the  music  rose. 
And  master's  art  adorned  the  walls. 
And  o'er  it  all  hung  sweet  repose. 

The  first  and  nearest  door,  I  tried, 
Was  one  a  singer,  long  ago, 
Found  when  distressed  with  pain  he  cried 
For  healing  streams  to  him  to  flow, 
Then  sang  his  praise  alone  to  Him, 
"Who  healeth   all  thy  sicknesses," 
And  there  I  found  a  truth,  now  dim, 
That  God  with  health  the  sick  can  bless. 

Another  palace-door  a  pearl 
Swung  open  widely  to  my  gaze. 
And  like  the  waves  that  gently  curl 
Upon  the  sunlit  water's  face. 
There  came  in  waves  of  harmony 
A  thousand  voices  in  this  place, 
All  promises  of  things  to  be. 
And  of  His  daily  help  of  grace. 

As  the  orchestral  melody 

By   variations   is   enhanced, 

So  did  his  words:    "Come  unto  me," 

Lead  jubilant;  I  stood  entranced, — 


1 82  The  Lost  Chimes 

"Come  unto  me,  111  give  you  rest, 
My  yoke  is  easy,  burden  light," — 
Ah,  here  I  found  all  that  my  quest 
Had  sought  in  weariness  and   night. 

Another   pearl   did   ope   the   gate 

To   throne-rooms  of   the   Sovereign's   pow*r, 

Where   not  a  shadow   of   dark   Fate 

Had  part  in  any  dial's  hour; 

But  truth  and   righteousness  and  love 

Did  govern  life  and  destiny, 

The  Sovereign's  will,  supreme  above 

The  ways  of  man,  did  all  decree. 

And  in  this  hour  of  awful  gloom, 
When  faith  is  wrecked,  and  hope  is  low, 
The  glory  from   this   Palace-room 
Makes  all  the  mountain-peaks  aglow; 
And  shadows  flee  from  vale  and  plain, 
And  struggling  armies  see  a  gleam, 
Commensurate  with  grief  and   pain, — 
The  truth  of  what  seemed  but  a  dream. 

My  rosary  has  many  beads, 

I  need  an  endless  life  to  learn. 

To  what  exalted  things  each  leads. 

For  which  my  soul  doth  truly  yearn, — 

And  when  the  innermost  I  gain. 

There  hangs  a  cross  which  lights  the  way 

To  Palace-portals  where  I  fain 

Would  be  this  moment,  and  for  aye. 


By  the  Wayside  183 


VICTOR  HUGO 

It  was  on  a  midsummer  night, 
Now  long  ago, 

In  the  far-off  land  of  Norway, 
I  sat  in  an  open  window. 
And  dreamed. 

The  valley  and  hills  and  distant  mountains 
Were  all  like  a  dream 
In  the  soft  light  and  wonderful  calm 
Of  the  night. 

The  odor  of  cherry-blossoms  and  birch, 

And  the  mingled  perfume  from  meadows  and  hills 

and  vale 
Wrought  with  a  fairy-potion, 
Dreams  and  thrills  of  the  soul. 

The  lazy  smoke  of  the  Saint  John's  fire 

Like  pillars  rose  from  the  wooded  heights 

To  the  sky  cerulian, 

Where  the   evening  star  shone   bright, 

Like  an  eye  that  twinkles  with  tears  of  joy ; 

It   shimmered    above   a   cataract. 

Whose  music  rose  and  fell 

Where  the  river  leaped  over  the  rocks  to  the  fjord. 

The  night  had  voices: 

Laughter  and  singing  of  youth  round  the  bonfires; 

Purling  of  streams,  and  twitter  of  sleepless  birds; 

Yet  all  was  peace,  and  joy,  and  life, 

And  mystery  such  as  the  Avon  Bard 

Did  see  and  hear  on  a  Midsummer  night. 


184  The  Lost  Chimes 

I  was  but  a  boy,  and  the  names  of  the  great 

Were  new  to  me,  and  yet  not  strange, — 

I  knew  not  why. 

That  day  I  had  read  about  Hugo, 

That  he,  the  greatest  of  singers 

In  our  own  day,  was  dead ; 

I  felt  a  heart-gripping  sorrow, 

And  wept  as  over  a  friend. 

It  seemed  that  his  spirit  was  there, 
In  the  dreams  of  that  Saint  John's  night. 
That  all  the  fairies  and  flowers  and  streams 
Were  greeting  him  with  a  love  that  had  sadness, 
And  yet  which  rose  on  the  wings  of  gladness, 
Up  to  the  stars. 

My  soul  did  feel  it,  I  know  not  how, 

That  he  was  there,  a  part  of  it  all. 

The  Highpriest  of  Nature,  Romance  and  Life. 

TO  A  FRIEND 

In  the  stillness  of  the  evening, 
When  the  dew  is  on  the  grass, 
And  the  forest  stands  a-d reaming, 
'Round  the  moonlit  lake  of  glass. 
Do  I  hear  a  sighing  whisper, 
As  when  happy  lovers  part,  1 

It  is  thine  I  hear,  my  lady. 
Rising  from   all   nature's  heart. 

When  the  autumn  winds  are  blowing. 
And  the  yellow  leaves  fall  down, 
Whirled  upon  the  river,  flowing 


By  the  Wayside  185 


To  the  mighty,  distant  sound, — 
Then  I  hear  thy  soul  a-weeping, 
For  the  love  that  is  no  more, 
For  the  life  now  in  God's  keeping, 
On  a  far-off,  unknown  shore. 

When  the  fields  and  hills  are  covered 

With  a  blanket  of  pure  snow. 

And  the  streams,  where  oft  we  hovered, 

Unseen  'neath  the  thick  ice  flow. 

Then  I  know  thy  life  lies  hidden 

Under  sorrow's  wintry  plaid, 

But  the   hope,   which   seems   forbidden, 

In  its  course  cannot  be  staid. 

When  in  spring  new  life  is  risen 
From  the  grave  with  songs  of  joy, 
Then  thy  soul  shall  leave  its  prison. 
And  its  broken  harp  employ, 
Then  again  that  sighing  whisper. 
Charged  with  love  and  happiness, 
I  shall  hear  amid  the  woodlands 
Which  the  dreamy  lake  caress. 

TO  A  "KNOCKER" 

This  sturdy  world  is  hard  to  knock, 
Though  hit  it  as  you  may, 
It  moves,  unmindful  of  the  shock, — 
In  its  accustomed  way. 

It  laughs  a  little  cynic  laugh 
And  says:  Fall  into  line, 


1 86  The  Lost  Chimes 

The  use  of  Mose'  rod  and  staff 
Is  but  for  the  divine. 

Come,  son,  or  thou  must  surely  die. 
One  fool  the  more  or  less 
Will  not  provoke  a  mournful  cry, 
Nor  cause  an  hour's  distress." 

"So  know  thy  best,  be  like  the  rest, 
And  stop  thy  foolish  knocking, 
Who  cares  for  Vision'  and  for  'quest,' 
Save  one,  the  quest  of  shopping." 

A  VISION 

To-day  I  had  a  vision  of  the  thing 

Which  we  call  life — the  sum  of  human  life — 

In  person  of  an  upright  monster-man. 

Decked  in  a  foot-long  robe  of  many  hues. 

Whose  front  was  squares  of  yellow,  red  and  green. 

And  blue  and  purple  and  the  violet. 

Whose  back  was  sombre  brown,  but  mostly  black; 

His  large  and  bony  feet  strode  heavily, 

A-trampling,  upon  beings  in  his  path. 

On  men  and  women  and  on  little  babes. 

And  crushed  them  in  the  dust  without  a  pity, 

Once  in  a  while  he  lifted  to  his  breast 

Some  one  with  fondling  pleasure,  and  did  bear 

The  favorite  aloft,  that  all  might  see 

His  glory's  contrast  to  their  misery; 

But  then  at  length,  he  tired  of  even  such. 

And  cast  them  down  into  the  common  dust. 

I  looked  upon  his  visage,  strangest  this, 

A  blending  of  the  human  and  the  beast: — 


By  the  Wayside  187 


But  then  the  vision  vanished,  and  I  heard 
A  cry  and  circling  of  the  Pheonix  bird. 

SIGNS  CELESTIAL 

I   read   in  the  mystic  Kabbala 
That  there  is  a  creature  in  heaven 
To  which  the  most  blessed  Jehovah 
Two  wonderful  tokens  hath  given: 

A  word  in  its  forehead  at  morning, 
A  word   in  its   forehead   at  night, 
Like  jewels  those  words  are  adorning 
The  creature  with  glory  and  light. 

The  first  one  is  "Truth"  which  is  telling 

The  angels  of  heaven,  it  is  day. 

Its  lustre  most  joyous,  compelling, 

Is  guiding  and  keeping  their  way. 

The  other  is  "Faith,"  which  betoken 
That  night  is  advancing  apace, 
With  rays  that  are  dimmer  and  broken, 
Like   sunset   through   silvery   haze. 

And  I  pondered  this  much,  till  I  ventured 
The  signs  on  this  world  to  apply, 
Though  Rabbins  of  old  might  have  censured, 
And  judged  that  for  this  I  must  die. 

But  the  sign  that  is  set  on  this  creature — 
The  world — I  perceive  is  the  last, 
The  first  may  belong  to  the  future, 
When  night's  gloomy  vigils  are  past. 


1 88  The  Lost  Chimes 

DESPAIR 

Hence  vain,  illusive  Hope, 

Thou  errant  guide,  thou  jesting,  mocking  fool! 

For  thee  should  be  the  hangman's  rope, 

Or  drowning  in  the  deepest  pool. 

Or  everlasting  prison  in  the  darkest  pit 

Of  Dante's  hell. 

Where  like  a  Siren  thou  should'st  sit 

And  mock  thyself  by  saying:  all  is  well. 

I  henceforth  choose  black  Melancholy's  aid, — 

The  only  prophetess  of  real  truth. 

Who  nothing  promises,  who  never  made 

A  fair  illusion  for  aspiring  youth ; — 

"All  is  nothing,"  she  doth  whisper  still, 

A  whisper  from  a  Sibyl's  cave  it  seems, 

A  soothing  balm  for  every  human  ill, 

A  true  solution  of  man's  checkered  dreams. 

Thou  sable  sovereign  of  man*s  destiny, 
Thou  cypress-crowned  queen  of  night  and  grave. 
Thou  ruler  of  man's  woe  and  misery, — 
The  world's  great  cry  which  like  a  wave 
Breaks  on  the  rocks  of  cruel  Fate, — 
Thou  autocrat  of  all  that  overwhelms 
Man's  soul  with  sorrow,  disappointment,  hate, 
To  thee  belongs,  at  last,  all  worlds  and  realms. 

HOPE 

When  mid  the  ruins  of  my  life 

I  sit  dejected  and  forlorn, 

And  think,  how  useless  was  the  strife 


By  the  Wayside  189 


That  was  by  strong  ambitions  borne, 
And  count  the  years  and  reck  the  cost, 
Which  all  seem  idly  spent  and  vain. 
Fair  Hope  comes,  saying:     "Nought  is  lost. 
Life's  failures  bring  the  better  gain!" 

When  sorrow,  troubles  come  in  flocks, 
Like  angry  clouds,  driven  by  the  blast, 
Like  waves  against  the  riven  rocks. 
On  which  my  helpless  soul  is  cast. 
And  night  and  darkness  come  apace, 
With  not  a  friend  around  to  cheer, 
Again  she  shows  her  angel  face, 
And  whispers  gently:  *'Do  not  fear." 

When  by  the  graves  of  those  I  love 
Dark  doubts  are  hovering  around. 
She  lifts  my  tearful  look  above 
The  withered  lily  on  the  mound, 
And  in  the  blue,  so  far  away, 
I  see  a  gleam,  it  seems  a  smile, — 
Again  I  hear  her  softly  say: 
''Despair  not,  wait  a  little  while." 

O,  blessed  Hope,  without  whose  aid. 
No  victory  is  ever  won. 
In  life's  sweet  morn  and  sunny  glade. 
Or  evening  shadows  drear  and  dun. 
Thou  art  our  guardian  angel,  who 
Walks  with  us,  when  all  others  fail. 
And   scatters   roses,    fresh   with   dew, — 
O,  heaven-born  all  hail!  all  hail! 


I90  The  Lost  Chimes 

BE  STILL  MY  SOUL,  BE  STILL 

Be  still  my  soul,  be  still; 
Fret  not  thyself  with  cares  of  life, 
With  worldly  vanity  and  strife, 
Which  bring  but  ill. 

Withdraw  thyself  and  be  alone, 
Alone  in  holy  solitude, 
Then  shalt  thou  know  the  highest  good, 
And  for  thy  sins  atone. 

Then  shalt  thou  know  the  harmony 
Of  sweet  celestial  strains, 
Whose  soothing  notes  allay  the  pains 
Brought  on  by  human  misery. 

This  world  is  void  of  peace, — 
'Tis  nowhere  found,  except  within, 
When  from  the  earthly  gain  to  win, 
Thou  deignest  cease. 

AWAKE 

The  livelong  night  I  lie  awake. 

While  all  the  world  is  slumbering. 

And  weary  I  am  numbering 

The  hours  which  on  the  stillness  break; 

The  hours,  which  give  to  others  balm. 
The  blessed  balm  of  soothing  sleep. 
My  mind  in  cruel  torture  keep, 
And  yet  demand  a  perfect  calm. 


By  the  Wayside  191 


The  hours  whose  loss  I  oft  bewail 
At  close  of   busy  workingday, 
Now  gladly  I  hear  pass  away, 
And  the  approaching  morning  hail. 

And  yet  their  woe  hath  recompense, 
Which  sleeping  mortals  do  not  know, 
For  gentle  voices  come  and  go, 
With  solace  to  the  weary  sense. 

From  distant  meadows  comes  the  sound 
Of  cowbells,  stirred  at  intervals. 
And  to  my  heart  with  joy  recalls 
The  age  when  in  their  clang  I  found 

Suggestions  of  a  fairy  land. 
When  Elfins  rang  their  silver  bells 
In  flow'ry  meads  and  shady  dells, 
Or  on  the  quiet  moonlit  strand. 

I  hear  the  cricket's  autumn  song. 
The  ceaseless  music  of  the  night, 
It  tells  about  the  summer's  flight. 
And  of  its  life,  so  full  and  strong. 

Of  memories  with  love  aglow, 
In  youth  and  manhood's  fuller  life. 
Of  vanished  days  with  glory  rife. 
Whose  joys  I  ne'er  again  shall  know. 

And  far  away  the  river  sings 

Its  lullaby  out  to  the  sea, 

A  sense  of  rest  comes  over  me. 

Perhaps  sweet  sleep  at  last  it  brings. 


192  The  Lost  Chimes 

THE  AWAKENING 

Some  morn  I  shall  awake  and  find  life's  dreams  arc 
ended, 

And  find  its  fears  and  hopes  have  into  meaning 
blended, 

And  from  the  gloom  of  night  the  day,  at  last,  as- 
cended. 

To  find  that  storms  and  waves  have  into  calm  sub- 
sided, 
My  well-nigh  broken  bark  has  into  harbor  glided, 
And  find  the  compass  true  in  which  my  soul  con- 
fided. 

ASTERS 

A  bunch  of  fresh  asters,  purple  and  white  and  red. 
Stands  on  my  table,  fixed  in  a  Mexican  bowl. 
Thanks  I  did  render  for  food  which  my  body  has 

fed. 
But  not  for  the  blossoms  that  gladdened  and  nour- 
ished my  soul. 

The  joy  they  awake  may  be  truer  thanksgiving. 
Though  wordless,  accepted  by  Him  who  did  say: 
"Man  by  the  bread  alone  shall  not  be  living," 
And  bid  us  behold  the  fair  lilies  that  grow  by  the 
way. 


By  the  Wayside  193 


BUTTERFLIES 

I  sit  on  my  porch  the  long  after-noon, 

And  dream,  and  dream,  and  dream ; 

And  the  butterflies  hover  across  the  lawn, 

In  shadow  and  golden  beam. 

From  flower  to  flower  they  flutter  and  fly, 

The  sweet  of  their  beauty  to  find. 

And  out  of  my  dream  I  wake  with  a  cry: 

**Ah,  thus  is  my  unquiet  mind!" 

For  the  chalice  of  life  has  few  sweets  for  me, 

But  mostly  some  bitter  thing, 

The  flowers  which  I  planted  with  youthful  glee, 

So  often  their  poison  bring. 

And  the  dreams  that  I  dream  are  of  things  that 

are  past, 
With  remorse  for  their  follies  and  hopes, 
That  the  few  joys  of  life  so  briefly  do  last. 
And  the  noon-day  so  rapidly  slopes. 

Yet,  the  butterflies  dance  for  a  time  without  care, 

And  why  should  I  murmur  and  fret, 

While  the  summer  is  here,  and  all  nature  is  fair, 

And  gleams  mid  the  shadows  are  set? 

I'll  banish  remorse  and  the  sorrow  which  slays, 

And  dance  with  the  butterflies  gay. 

And  dream  little  less,  and  enter  the  ways 

Of  things  which  remain  for  a  day. 


194  The  Lost  Chimes 

THE  ROSEBUSH 

Against  a  quivering,  golden  beam, 
Where  dance  a  myriad  winged  things, 
A  rosebush  stands,  entranced  in  a  dream, 
While  one  gay  thrush  in  the  elm-tree  sings, 
It  sends  from  wealth  of  a  perfume  sweet 
An  offering  up  to  the  happy  bard, 
Whose  flood  of  melody  flows  to  meet 
The  floating  essence  of  wild-rose  nard. 

The  flush  of  pink  amid  shades  of  green, 
Is  like  a  wreath  for  a  June-day  bride, 
Its  crown  is  decked  with  a  lustrous  sheen, 
Yet  it  has  gloom  where  the  fairies  hide, 
For  this  is  midsummer's  perfect  eve. 
When  minds  are  roving  on  fancy's  wing, 
When  hearts  are  young  and  all  things  believe, 
And  childhood's  gladness  from  long  since  bring. 

A  rare  creation,  a  gift  divine. 

This  rosebush  is  in  my  garden  nook. 

Whose  beauty  all  of  the  sacred  Nine 

Would  fancy  more  than  the  wisest  book. 

For  not  a  poet  in  any  age 

Did  joyful  loveliness  e'er  express 

Like  that  which  lolls  round  the  unseen  mage. 

So  perfect,  charming,  and  effortless. 

It  stands  apart  from  the  world  of  woe, 
An  yet  has  balm  for  the  troubled  mind. 
An  holy  altar  where  one  may  know 
The  joy  of  beauty,  and  solace  find. 
Since  God  is  there  as  in  days  of  eld. 


By  the  fV  ay  side  195 


When  Moses  heard  Him  'mid  flaming  thorn, 
(For  I  have  always  in  secret  held, 
That  bush  had  also  its  roses  borne.) 

From  crowds  pretentious  and  gibbering, 
I  turn  oppressed  to  this  holy  place, 
Instead  of  clamor,  the  thrushes  sing, 
Instead  of  crudeness,  the  perfect  grace; 
My  soul  is  free,  as  I  bend  to  kiss 
The  smiling  rose,  whose  enchanting  breath 
Fills  all  my  being  with  such  a  bliss. 
That  I  could  wish  it  the  sting  of  death. 

TWO  ASPECTS 

There's  a  golden  light  on  one  side  of  the  tree. 

On  the  other  there  is  a  shadow, 

The  shadowy  side  goes  out  to  me, 

The  other  runs  down  to  the  meadow, 

And  the  light  is  beckoning  me  away 

To  the  leas  and  fields  of  new-mown  hay, 

Beckoning  out  from  the  shadow. 

There's  a  shadowyness  on  one  side  of  the  tree, 

On  the  other  a  golden  light, 

And  the  shadowy  side  is  inviting  me 

To  rest  in  its  sweet  delight. 

For  the  porches  are  wide,  and  the  ladies  are  fair. 

And  the  heat  of  the  sun  is  not  striking  there, — 

And  I  stand  at  the  tree  in  a  plight. 


196  The  Lost  Chimes 

THE  GREAT  "I  AM" 

Thou  art,  and  there  is  nought  besides  Thee! 

Man's  myriad  errors  in  thought  and  striving, 

Seen  and  unseen,  are  not  of  Thee! 

They  are  not, — 

But  self-eliminating, — 

Since  Thou  alone  art  Truth  and  Love. 

What  is  of  man's  finiteness 

Is  nothing  in  Thy  Everlastingness ; — 

He  only  is;  That  only  is. 

Which  is  a  part  of  Thee  in  mind  or  matter ! 

THE  DEATH  CHANT 

I  heard  a  chant  and  a  wailing, 

Among  the  wooded  hills. 

From  an  Indian  hut  where  they  carried  away 

A  man  from  his  earthly  ills. 

The  black-garbed  women  were  chanting 
The  weirdest  song  I  have  heard — 
An  Indian  lamentation. 
Till  nature  itself  seemed  stirred. 

And  my  heart  was  filled  with  pity, 

As  I  saw  that  band  forlorn. 

Its  poverty  and  sorrow — 

On  that  bright  September  morn. 

And  I  thought  of  their  ancient  story. 
When  the  country  was  all  their  own, 


By  the  Wayside  I97 


And  they  dwelt  'mid  its  unshorn  glory — 
A  splendor  to  us  unknown — 

The  glory  of  forest  and  prairie, 

A-teeming  with  herds  and  game, 

And  the  rivers  and  streams  and  glittering  lakes — 

For  food  but  another  name. 

When  they  were  lords  of  the  realms  they  surveyed, 

And  lived  to  their  heart's  content, 

Till  the  white  man  came  and  robbed  them 

Of  all  but  their  rotting  tent. 

And  the  chiefs  sat  down  in  the  ashes 
Mid  the  hearth-stones  of  the  past, 
And  a  race  of  pride  and  adventure 
Stood  round  with  eyes  downcast. 

And  the  songs  of  the  chase  and  the  battle, 
And  the  ballads  of  joy  were  hushed — 
But  the  death-chant   is   still   remembered. 
By  hearts  that  are  sad  and  crushed. 

And  it  seemed  like  the  wail  of  a  people 
Whose  sun  upon  earth  has  set — 
The  chant  of  the  weeping  women, 
And  the  men  to  burial  met. 

THE  LETTER 

I  wrote  a  letter  from  my  heart. 

Aglow  with  pain  and  passion. 
In  angry  words  and  sudden  start 

Of  pity  and  compassion. 


ig8  The  Lost  Chimes 


The  thing  was  done  in  utmost  haste, 
The  pen   inclined   to  caper, 

I  count  it  now  an  awful  waste 
Of  rather  decent  paper. 

And  when  the  thing,  I  had  achieved. 

Was  folded  in  my  pocket, 
My  soul  felt  wondrously  relieved, 

Spent,  like  a  fiery  rocket. 

When  I  did  think  of  sending  it, 

I   made  a  vague   decision, 
That  it  should  wait  a  little  bit, 

Ere  going  on  its  mission. 

It  waited  one,  it  waited  two 
And  three  days  for  the  mailing, 

And  on  the  fourth  myself  did  go 
Where  it  was  sure  of  failing. 

Upon  our  journey  did  we  cross 
A  stream  of  gentle  flowing, 

Where  I  impulsively  did  toss. 
Against  the  breezes  blowing, — ■ 

The  letter  torn  to  smithereens. 
Like  snowflakes  slow  descending. 

Received  by  lambent  hyalines 
And  current  gaily  wending. 

Thus  on  the  river's  peaceful  breast 
My  words  of  pain  were  carried. 

Some  swiftly  with  the  stream's  unrest, 
And  some  did  longer  tarry. 


By  the  Wayside  199 


And  to  the  sea  may  be  they  sailed, 
Where  ocean  swells  are  moaning, 

Where  life's  great  agony  is  wailed 
Mid    nature's   endless   groaning. 

Though  nought  is  lost,  yet  it  is  well 

To  let  the  fiery  letter 
Find  such  a  fate,  for  it  will  quell 

Things  that  destroy  the  better. 

And  this  advice  I  freely  give: 

Write  down  your  spirit's  frowning, 

For  three  days  let  it  lonely  live, 
Then  kill  it  all  by  drowning. 

GOD'S  TRUTH-TELLER 

The  poet  is  no  liar.     No! 

Though  truth  may  not  be  told 

By  him,  just  so,  and  so, — 

By  weight,  and  measure,  or  the  cold 

And  soulless  numbers  — 

By  facts,  so  called,  that  cloy  and  cumber 

The  Psyche  in  its  flight 

Into  that  heavenly  light 

Of  things,  which  children  know, — 

And  poets  see  and  feel 

In  beauty,  which  is  truth. 

Whose  life-inspiring  glow 

Sometimes  doth  steal 

Upon  him,  as  does  love  upon  the  youth, 

And   moves  his  heart   to   song — 

The  music  of  his  being. 

Whose  notes  are  pure  and  strong, 


200  The  Lost  Chimes 

While  he  is  seeing 

God's  Seraphims,  and  all 

The  earth  replete  with  glory, — 

And  hears  the  call 

From  ages  hoary 

To  his  own  day,  and  times  to  be — 

The  voice  of  God; 

Truth-teller  he, 

Despite  the  rod 

Of  proud  custodians 

Of  labelled  "scientific  facts"  sans 

Poetry, — 

Before  whom  he  refuses  to  bend  knee ; — 

Truth-teller   he,   because  to   him   was   given 

The  vision  to  behold — the  glory-trail  of  heaven. 

In  little  things  and  great. 

In  life,  and  death,  and  destiny,  and  fate. 

THE  DEATH  OF  THE  POET 

(Suggested    by    Gottschalk's    composition,     "The 
Dying  Poet.") 

Life's  checkered  dream  is  over, 
Ended  its  joys  and  woes; 
Silent  the  bard  and  the  lover 
Down  to  the  valley  goes; 
Down  to  the  dark,  broad   river 
Wanders  his  restless  soul. 
Into   the   vast    Forever, 
Which  he  so  oft  heard  call, — 
Ever,  forever. 
Singing  through  each  and  all. 


By  the  Wayside  20i 


Over  him  spirits  hover, 
Spirits  w^ho  knew  his  life, 
Knew  all  that  holy  power — 
Wasted  in  grief  and  strife, — 
Knew  how  he  gave,  not  heeding 
Sordidness,  greed  and  sin. 
Knew  how  his  heart  was  bleeding, 
Only  the  true  to  win, — 
Ever,  forever, 
Living  within. 

Music  too  vast  for  language, 
Bursting  the  bonds  and  bounds. 
Now  shall  be  free  from  anguish, 
Free  from  discordant  sounds, 
Finding  what  here  it  never 
Reached  in  its  noblest  fight. 
The  cadence  of  life's  forever, 
The  glory  of  deathless  light, — 
Ever,   forever. 
Leading  him  through  the  night. 

Pale  now  the  brow  of  the  singer. 

Undecked  by  laurel-wreath. 

Only  a  few  friends  linger. 

To  whom  he  his  songs  bequeathed; 

But  a  host  is  waiting  yonder, 

Whose  praise  on  his  ears  doth  burst, 

And  the  soul,  who  does  lonely  wander. 

Shall  quench  its  immortal  thirst, — 

Ever,  forever. 

And  the  things  that  are  last  shall  be  first. 


202  The  Lost  Chimes 

IN  SEARCH  OF  THE  PERFECT 

The  snow  was  new,  and  soft,  and  deep, 

The  forest  far  away  from  me. 
And  yet  how  could  I  Christmas  keep 

Without  a  perfect  Christmas  tree? 

So  I  set  out,  a  boy  of  twelve, 

With  sled  in  hand  to  reach  the  pines. 

And  through  the  snow  made  for  myself 
A  track  amid  most  wild  confines. 

Beneath  the  lofty  trees  there  stood 

Full  many  a  little  evergreen. 
And  all  were  straight,  and  seemed  quite  good. 

But  not  a  perfect  one  was  seen. 

I  waded  on  from  tree  to  tree, 

And  thought,  at  times  my  choice  I'd  found, 
But  lo,  it  lacked  true  symmetry. 

True  symmetry  from  top  to  ground. 

And  thus  the  afternoon  was  spent, 
Until   the   evening-shadows   fell. 

My  axe,  at  last,  was  deftly  sent 
Into  a  spruce,  each  stroke  did  tell 

Its  fate  through  all  the  silent  wood. 

On  echoes  distant,  echoes  near, 
Which  seemed  to  say  in  mocking  mood: 

"The  perfect  one  is  here — is  here!" 

My  ardor  for  the  perfect  one 
Subsided  as  I  strapped  my  prize. 


By  the  Wayside  203 


Half  of  my  strength  was  also  gone, 
And  easy  was  the  compromise. 

My  basking  in  the  new-fall'n  snow 

Had  drenched  me  and  brought  on  a  chill, 

The  homeward  journey,  long  and  slow, 
Sent  me  to  bed  severely  ill. 

Long  was  I  racked  with  fever's  fire, 
My  life  was  like  a  flickering  light, 

They  thought  its  last  gleam  would  expire 
Amid  the  storm  of  New  Year's  night. 

Thus  did  I  almost  pay  full  score 
For  that  my  first  and  youthful  quest 

For    perfectness,    and    evermore 
I've  found  this  is  her  stern  behest: 

Who  would  find  me  must  give  his  all, 
And  even  then  may  sorely  fail. 

But  it  adds  glory  to  the  soul 

To  walk  in  the  Immortal's  trail. 

THE  CHRISTMAS  CACTUS 

Born  on  the  desert's  sandy  plain, 
Born  among  thorns  and  heat  and  pain. 
Brought  to  my  home,  amid  cold  and  snow, 
Unfolding  blossoms  of  blood-drop  glory. 
Telling  in  symbol  the  Christ-child  story. 
And  the  way  that  He  still  must  go. 

For  tokens  of  joy  in  a  world  of  woe, 
'Mid  sorrow  and  loneliness  often  grow, 


204  The  Lost  Chimes 


The  word  of  truth  and  the  song's  clear  strain, 
That  warms  the  heart  when  the  earth  is  frozen, 
The  Lord  of  life  has  nourished  and  chosen 
In  deserts  of  thorns  and  pain. 

But  the  beauty  and  joy  of  my  Cactus  flower 
Has  sweetest  meaning  at  that  great  hour. 
When  the  church-bells  ring  on  Christmas  eve, 
Then  its  crimson  seems  with  a  wonder  glowing. 
And  from  its  petals  a  love  is  flowing, 
Which  none  but  Christ  can  give. 

CHRISTMAS  NIGHT 

Night,  and   a  lonely  star. 
Night,  with  its  deep  repose, 
A  gleam  of  light  from  afar — 
To  souls  oppressed  with  woes. 

Light  of  the  Bethlehem-star 
On  the  inn  and  the  shepherd-cotes, 
That  breaks  o'er  the  golden  bar, 
Whence  the   angel-anthem   floats. 

Song  of  peace  upon  earth, 
Peace  which  to  heaven  has  fled, 
But  shall  find  its  second  birth, 
Where  the  blood  of  millions  is  shed. 

"Peace  and  good  will  to  men!" 
Verily  'tis  His  voice, 
Bidding  us  trust  again, 
Yea,  even  in  hope  to  rejoice. 


By  the  Wayside  205 


Let  us  follow  the  guiding  ray, 
Let  us  go  to  the  manger  and  see 
The  things  which  the  angel  did  say, 
The  things  that  must  surely  be. 

And  our  doubts  and  our  fears  shall  cease, 
As  we  enter  the  holy  place. 
Where  dwelleth  the  Prince  of  Peace, 
The  Christ-child  of  love  and  grace. 

Like  children  we  there  will  bend 
Ourselves  in  true  adoration, 
And    humbly    in   worship   blend 
With  every  people  and  nation. 

And   sing  with  the  unseen  choir: 
"A  Saviour  to  us  is  born!" 
Till  kindles  the  heavenly  fire 
In  our  hearts  on  Christmas  morn. 

A  NEW  YEAR'S  INVOCATION,  1918 

Lord  in  this  hour  of  tempest  dread. 

Be  Thou  our  stay! 
While  boisterous  billows  lift  their  head 

Upon  our  way; 
While  angry  clouds  the  sun  obscure, 

Be  Thou  our  light! 
And  give  us  courage  to  endure 

The  night! 

Deliver  us  from  coward's  fear, 
.         And  craven's  wish  for  pleasure 


2o6  The  Lost  Chimes 

Help  us  defend  what  is  most  dear, 
With  love's  full  measure, — 
The  Liberty  our  fathers  won 
Through  storm  and  bloody  fray, 
The  Liberty  of  Washington, 
Of  Lincoln,  and  of  Clay! 

Grant  us  to  guard  this  heritage 

For  all   mankind. 
That  when  the  world  shall  cease  to  rage, 

It  here  may  find 
The  gift  of  Heaven,  beyond  all  price, 

To  show  the  way, 
That  through  this  awful  sacrifice 

May   dawn    a    better    day! 

We  know  not  what  the  year  will  bring 

Of  loss  and  sorrow; 
But  help  us  Thou  in  faith  to  sing 

Of  every  morrow 
As  that  of  hope  and  victory, 

And   larger  meed, 
With  trust  that  Thou  wilt  ever  be 

Our  help  in  need! 

Thus  we  will  breast  the  darkest  storm, 

Since  not  alone. 
And  confident,  Thou  wilt  perform, 

At  last  enthrone, 
Thy  righteous  acts  among  all  men, 

And   tyrants  overthrow; 
Grant  that  this  year's   recording  pen 

Such  victories  may  know!     Amen. 


By  the  Wayside  207 


EASTER 

Our  souls  have  need  of  Easter — 

Of  resurrection  light, 
For  never  times  were  trister, 

Nor  darker  seemed  the  night. 

Our  souls  have  need  of  Easter 
With  sunrise  on  the  tomb, 

For  Mary  has  many  a  sister 
Who  weeps  within  the  gloom. 

Our  souls  have  need  of  Easter, 

Its  lily  pure  and  sweet, 
As  when  the  day-dawn  kissed  her 

Before  the  Saviour's  feet. 

Our  souls  have  need  of  Easter, 

With  angel  heraldry, 
Which  breaks  the  base  and  bister 

Seal  of  the  Pharisee. 

Our  souls  have  need  of  Easter, 
With  faith  more  glad  and  strong. 

To  be  the  firm  resister 
Of  untruth  and  the  wrong. 

Our  souls  have  need  of  Easter, 
Which  scatter's  armed  foe, 

Whose  bloody  spears  still  glister 
Where  midnight  watch-fires  glow. 

Our  souls  have  need  of  Easter, 

With  gleams  of  victory 
O'er  powers  dark  and  sinister. 

And  cruel  tyranny. 


SONNETS 


LUX  EX  ORIENTE 

(Inscription  on  Haskal  hall,  University  of  Chicago) 

A  feeble  light  of  mummy-cloth  and  bones, 

From  crumbling  coffins  and  the  broken  tombs. 

From  hieroglyphic  mysteries  on  stones. 

Removed  from  pyramidal  catacombs. 

Or  sacred  rock-hewn  shrines  where  silence,  and 

Dark  night  have  reigned  five  thousand  years, — 

A  flick'ring  flame,  hid  'neath  the  desert  sand. 

And  now  revived,  until  its  brightness  clears 

The  gloom  of  history,  thanks  to  the  toil 

Of  sages  who  are  following  its  gleam 

Into  the  hoary  past,  and  there  the  oil 

Of  wisdom  find  which  turns  the  agelong  dream 

Of  resurrection  to  reality. 

And  Egypt  from  Oblivion  sets  free. 


azi 


212  The  Lost  Chimes 

ON  THE  STATUE  OF  VOLTAIRE 
(In   the  Art   Institute,    Chicago) 

He  looks  upon  the  daily  passing  throng, 

As  in  his  day  he  gazed  upon  the  world. 

With  cynic  smile  while  it  did  pass  along 

With  standards  of  its  varied  creeds  unfurled ; 

Upon   his   forehead,    reason's   citadel. 

His  searching  thoughts  have  left  their  runic  stamp; 

The  meager  hands  and  neck  the  story  tell, 

How  frail  the  temple  of  his  spirit's  lamp ; 

In  classic  robe  and  fillet  does  he  sit. 

The  poet-critic  of  France'  golden  age, 

By  whom  the  torch  of  liberty  was  lit. 

In  truth  and  beauty  on  the  written  page; — 

And  work  and  freedom  in  this  sage  did  find 

Their  true  apostle  to  all  humankind. 


Sonnets  213 

A  VENETIAN  WELL-HEAD 
(XV  CENTURY) 

(In  the  Gothic  room  of  the  Minneapolis  Art  In- 
stitute) 

When  I  behold  these  grooves,  cut  in  the  edge 
Of  Istrian  marble  by  the  bucket-ropes, 
Thy  ancient  history  its  romance  opes 
From  Zorzi  palace  garden  and  its  hedge: 
I  see  the  dark-eyed  maidens,  near  the  ledge, 
And  plumed  signors  feeding  ardent  hopes 
From  glances  darting  o'er  thy  watery  slopes : 
Or  hear  the  lovers  whisper  soft  their  pledge. 
As  deep  and  pure  as  was  thy  cooling  drink, — 
The  fount  of  life,  the  elixir  of  youth, 
The  well-spring  of  Venetian  art  and  song. 
When  truth  was  beauty  and  all  beauty  truth ; — 
Even  now  thy  charms  can  make  the  weary  strong. 
While  pausing  at  thy  side  to  dream  and  think. 


214  The  Lost  Chimes 

THE  PROSPECT 

A  youth  lay  stretched  upon  the  new-mown  hay, 
In  woodland  meadow,  near  a  winding  stream, 
And  gazed  at  summer-clouds  so  far  away, 
And  who  can  tell  the  substance  of  his  dream  ? — 
A  span  of  horses  and  a  rusty  rake 
Stood  near  him,  where  his  father  made  repair, — 
The  ground  was  rough,  and  things  did  sometimes 

break, 
And  added  trouble  to  the  toiler's  care; — 
At  last  the  rake  was  fixed,  the  boy  arose 
To  take  his  place  upon  its  iron-stool. 
And  doing  so,  he  said:     "Do  you  suppose 
That  I  can  go  away,  this  fall,  to  school?" 
To  which  his  father  answered :  "We  will  see, — 
If  you  work  hard,  till  snow  flies,  it  may  be." 


Sonnets  215 

THE  HARVEST 

The  perfect,  all  resplendent  moon  looks  down, 
From  cloudless  realms  of  blue,  upon  a  scene 
Most  marvellous, — Earth  In  her  harvest-gown, — 
A  golden  garment,  hemmed  by  darkish  green. 
Moved    by   the   wandering  winds   that   drink   the 

sweet 
Of  new-mown  clover-fields  and  tasselled  corn; 
The  sound  thereof  is  as  when  lovers  meet. 
And  whisper  gladness  out  of  hearts  love-lorn; — 
Her  royal  robe,  to  which  the  world  is  clinging. 
On  which  the  moon  and  sun  smile  with  delight. 
Of  which  all  nature's  minstrels  now  are  singing 
In  varied  melodies,  by  day  and  night, — 
Earth's  great  achievement,  loveliest  and  best, 
The  golden  harvest  of  the  Middle  West. 

THE  REWARD  OF  EPIMENIDES 

When  Solon  gave  to  Athens  laws,  and  sought 

To  cleanse  it  from  pollutions  and  the  crimes 

Which  dire  disasters  from  the  gods  had  brought, 

He  called  a  prophet  from  the  purer  clime, 

Of  sunny  Crete,  great  Epimenides, 

The  wise,  the  nymph-begotten,  whose  long  sleep 

Had  let  him  into  nature's  mysteries, 

And  things  that  are  for  common  minds  too  deep : 

He  came,  and  did  the  work  of  bard  and  priest, 

That  Solon's  code  might  shine  clear  as  the  sun. 

And  what  reward? — The  people  hardly  wist 

But  offered  riches  for  the  service  done. 

"An  olive  branch  is  all  I  ask,"  he  said ; 

That  branch  is  green,  though  Athen's  glory's  dead. 


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